Rapture's Betrayal (22 page)

James shot his daughter a glance. “Minor injuries only. Thomas was grazed in the arm by a musket ball. Nothing serious as long as it's treated proper. The others including myself suffered a few cuts and bruises, nothing more.”

She smiled at her father, glad.

Suddenly, he scowled at her. “You were out this night, daughter.”

Kirsten's heart pumped hard. He was going to punish her. “Yes,
Vader,”
she said meekly.

“You could have been killed!”

She inclined her head.

“Why?”

She blinked. “Why? Ah . . . because I couldn't stand by while you all fought elsewhere. I had to see, had to know, in case I could help.”

He looked at her as if she were crazy. “Without a weapon how did you propose to do that? Stare them to death?”

“I—”

“You will not venture out like that again! The next time you are told to go to the Van Voorhees' farm, you will go and stay there!
Is that clear?”

“Yes,
Vader.”

“James,” Agnes interjected, “do you truly think this will happen again? That we'll be forced to hide? Sarah and Samuel are wonderful people, but—”

“This is war, Agnes,” he said, his voice sharp. “How many times must I tell you?” He saw her face and was immediately contrite. “Dearest, no one will truly be safe until this terrible time ends.”

And Kirsten had to agree, silently.

After he'd left Kirsten, Richard slipped into the cover of night and headed toward the tavern under the elm tree. He had a hunch that it was there the militiamen would gather to discuss their raid. The local inn was popular with the Hoppertown men, and Richard knew that Martin Hoppe, the owner, was truly dedicated to the cause.

Would Martin believe him as Kirsten had suggested, or would he follow along with the others and consider him a Tory trying to save his skin. If so, who could blame him?

The tavern was up ahead, lit only with a single taper in a window of the common room. Richard crept stealthily toward the door, unsure of his welcome. He knocked softly on the heavy door. There was no sound of movement inside, and he thought that he might have been mistaken about the gathering place. The militia must have met elsewhere—at one of the member's homes perhaps.

Then he heard the click of the door latch. He stood back, his heart beating wildly as someone opened the door.

Martin's eyes widened as he saw who it was. “Come in,” he invited after a long moment. He didn't take his gaze off Richard as he stepped aside to allow him to enter.

“You're Kirsten's friend,” he said.

Richard nodded. “And yours, I hope.”

The man didn't comment, but turned and moved toward one of the tables, where he pulled out a chair and sat down. “You have something to tell me?”

“Yes, I do,” Richard said, “but first I must confess something, and I must have your word that you'll not speak of it before a living soul.”

Martin looked wary, but he inclined his head. “You saved my life. Why?”

“Because I'm a friend—a Patriot. I'm a spy working for General Washington. I've been traveling with this particular band of Tories for weeks now. My usefulness there ended last night when your men attacked us. I couldn't fight you. I had managed to get out of combat with Patriot or Continental forces until last night. Then I was forced to make a choice. An easy one, I might add. I couldn't kill your men. We are, after all, brothers fighting on the same side.”

“So you say.”

Richard nodded. “I can understand your skepticism. And I realize it's up to you whether or not you choose to believe me.”

“Kirsten does, but then, my cousin is in love with you.”

Richard started. In love, Kirsten? And after everything he'd put her through.

“I agree,” Martin said, accurately reading his thoughts. “You probably don't deserve it.”

Richard flushed, but he also experienced a secret burst of joy. Kirsten loved him! Her cousin was staring at him. He returned the man's gaze.

“Kirsten trusts me because she senses I speak the truth.”

“Perhaps.” Martin's gaze didn't waver, and the piercing look went right through Richard. “This is what you wanted to tell me? What you wanted me to keep silent about?”

“That I'm a spy, yes. I'm searching for a man . . . his undercover name is Biv. I don't know what he looks like. Before, when I first came to Hoppertown, I was to meet with him. I got word by a messenger. He was the key informant for a friend of mine—a dead friend. Alexander Brooks. Alex worked for the general in a similar capacity as I. Only his . main function was the acquisition and transference of British battle plans.”

Martin blinked. “This was done?”

Richard shrugged. “I said it was Alex's job, not that he was necessarily successful at it. Alex met this man Biv and supposedly gained some very valuable information about the King's troops. Unfortunately, Alex didn't live long enough to tell what he'd learned.” He paused. “He was murdered in cold blood.” He couldn't suppress a small shiver.

Richard had remained standing since his entry. Now he gestured toward a seat. “May I?”

Martin nodded. “An ale?” he asked, rising to his feet.

“Thank you, yes.”

Richard waited patiently for Martin to leave the room and return with the ale. It took Kirsten's cousin longer than he'd expected, and he wondered if he'd made a mistake in confiding in the man. Martin could have left to alert the others of the presence of a Loyalist.

But Martin had only found some food to go along with the ale. He came back holding two tankards by the handle in one hand and balancing two plates in the other.

“Hungry?” he asked.

Richard smiled. “Starved.”

Martin sat down and took a drink. “Thought I'd betrayed you, didn't you?”

He nodded, not bothering to deny it.

“I'm not an unreasonable man, Canfield—Canfield, that is your name? I heard Greene call you Canfield, but I assume now that it might not be.”

“You assume correctly. My name's Maddox. Richard Maddox.”

“The Mad Ox?” Martin bit into a piece of bread.

Richard was stunned. “You've heard of me?”

“No. You mean you're actually called that?”

Richard gave him a slight smile. “I'm known to some by that name.”

“I see.” But the man looked puzzled. “As I started to say, ah . . . Maddox—”

“Richard.”

“Richard, then. I am not an unreasonable man, nor am I too obsessed to see that what you're saying has got a ring of truth to it.”

Richard, who'd raised a slab of bread to take a bite, paused before placing the crusty piece between his lips. “I thank God for that.”

The two men grinned at one another, suddenly at ease.

“So, all right now, tell me about this Greene,” Martin said. “He's one of the men who escaped?”

Richard nodded. “'Fraid so.”

Martin cursed. “And my cousin?”

“Safe at the Van Voorhees' farm. I took her there myself.”

Her cousin sighed with relief. “Good. She's a foolish girl at times.”

Richard stiffened, believing that the man was referring to her involvement with him. But Martin was regarding him with amusement, and Richard knew he'd misjudged the man.

“She tends to run toward battle instead of away,” Kirsten's cousin said.

Richard's mouth split into a grin. “I know. Damn her.”

And then he told Martin of his experiences with the band of Loyalists and the threat of more troops, and the possible arrival in Hoppertown of the King's men.

The men rushed out of the forest surprising the Van Atta family on their journey home. They were Tories; among them were familiar faces—Edmund Dunley's, Bernard Godwin's, and that of William Randolph, Agnes' own brother.

James bellowed an oath when he saw them. He reached for his rifle only to have one of them fire at him first, grazing his arm.

“Vader!”
Kirsten exclaimed as she scrambled to her knees to check his injury, but he pushed her back, ordering her to stay down.

“Randolph,” James growled. “Bastard!” Beside him, his wife began to cry. “Tories! Bloody Loyalists!”

The five Loyalists stepped out of the woods onto the road. Kirsten's gaze never left her uncle as the men moved in to block the Van Attas' wagon. William Randolph looked smug. He was dressed much like the others, in dark coat and matching knee breeches, only Randolph's clothing was obviously a class above the garb of the others in quality and cut. His shirt was pristine white and neatly pressed.

Kirsten knew her family was virtually trapped. Because of the dense thickets on both sides of the trail, it would be impossible for her father to drive on or turn around with any speed. The mare Hilga, tied to the back, would further hamper any escape attempt.

William Randolph approached the cart, grinning, an evil light in his familiar brown eyes. “You're going to turn this vehicle around, Van Atta, and head back to the Van Voorhees' farm.”

Kirsten was startled. “Why?” she said. How did he know about the Van Voorhees' farm?

Her uncle shot her an exasperated glance. “You escaped unharmed, I see.” He scowled; clearly he'd been upset to learn of her disappearance from the smokehouse. “As to your question, dear niece, you're going to obey because I command it. And because by now the others will have captured your rebel friends there.”

“But William, why?” Agnes sobbed. Tears fell down her cheeks, a testament to her confusion and pain. “Why are you doing this? We're family—”

“Family!” Randolph said with loathing. “You've chosen sides; you're not my kin.” He looked at his sister with disgust. “I told you not to marry him. He's been nothing but trouble for the Randolphs.”

“No,” she cried, stung by his words. “It's not true. He's a good man! For God's sake, he's my husband, the father of my child!”

“Silence!”
Randolph leveled his gun in James's direction. “Or I'll shoot him dead before your eyes.”

Agnes blanched and kept still. She knew her brother meant business. Somehow, during the past years, he'd changed into a monster . . . a cruel, inhuman being.

“Godwin. Dunley,” Randolph called. The fat man and his cohort came forward. Their guns raised, they waited for orders.

While Randolph spoke to both men, he didn't allow his gaze or his' gun's bore to veer from his brother-in-law. “I told this Dutch
boer
here to turn around. See that he does it.”

Godwin nodded, his jowls bobbing. Edmund Dunley left his friend to walk toward the rear of the wagon, keeping a careful watch on Kirsten. William lowered his gun and began to walk about.

“You'll never win,” Kirsten taunted, raising her chin. “You may think you can, but you won't! The King will never give you what you want. He'll demand more from you until you're bled dry. And then he'll ask for more still.”

“You know nothing,” Dunley said sharply. “You're a child.”

“Don't I? Am I?” She gave him a grim smile. “And I suppose your leader, Elias Greene, knows all?”

“Pah!” Dunley retorted. “Greene isn't our leader. Your Uncle William is.”

“You heard him,” Kirsten retorted. “I have no uncle.”

Her uncle firmed his lips. “Elias Greene is hardly a leader, girl,” he said as he approached her. “The man's useful is all. At this moment, he's got the wives and children of your wonderful militiamen. Think we can't win when your men are consumed with concern about the safety of their loved ones?”

“Pig!” Kirsten cried, and her uncle slapped her.

Randolph laughed and stepped around to the front of the wagon, where he folded his arms and stared up at the driver.

James Van Atta had no choice but to do what his brother-in-law ordered, although he thought the man was crazy. With a scowl on his face and a vein pulsating at his left temple, he rose angrily and started to climb down from his vehicle.

“Stop!” Randolph ordered.

Kirsten's father froze.

“Stay in the wagon.” William held up his gun in warning.

His gaze flickering toward his leader, Bernard Godwin fingered the trigger of his rifle. “Shall I shoot him?”

James turned slowly. He looked at his brother-in-law and then down at his gun, glanced toward Godwin and then back to William as if he believed the whole lot of them had gone mad. “How am I to turn my horse about if I don't get down? The road here is narrow.”

William Randolph gazed at him through veiled eyes. “Mr. Joseph!” he shouted. A man who had been watching the exchange from several steps behind, came forward. William signaled to him with a wave of his arm. “Take the horse's reins and help my sister's husband to steer this claptrap about.”

Samuel Joseph hurried to do as he was bid. Then he returned the lead to James Van Atta.

“Let's go then.” Randolph had climbed onto a mount that one of his men had brought to him. He rode before the wagon, his head held high. Dunley and Godwin walked alongside, while another Loyalist followed on foot in back.

“You won't get away with this, William,” Kirsten's father said heatedly. He placed an arm about his sobbing wife to offer her comfort. “You're mad! You don't know what you're doing!”

William glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, you think not?” His thin lips curved upward. “I think I shall . . . with your help. We shall see. We shall see . . .”

The group headed toward the Van Voorhees' farm. Kirsten rubbed her smarting cheek. What was to become of them? she wondered.

Richard and Martin were surprised at their conversation when John Ackerman and several members of the local militia burst into the common room of the inn.

“What?” The innkeeper started to rise. “What's wrong, John? Has something happened?”

John nodded. “I'm afraid so, Martin.” He stopped as he noticed who sat with his friend.

Richard stood, feeling the sudden tension in the room. He eyed the Patriot group warily, for he knew the men did not know he was one of them. They thought him a Tory. The enemy.

“The bloody Tories!” John spat out, staring at Richard. “Their leader Greene—that red-haired bastard—and his men have taken the Van Voorhees' place.”

“What!”
Richard exclaimed. He stiffened with rage. “When? How?”
My God,
he thought,
Kirsten's there. And now Greene!

“Over an hour ago. Perhaps longer. Sometime in the night,” Ackerman said, his eyes narrowing. He addressed Martin. “We'd stopped at Vandervelt's on the way there.” He gestured toward Garret Vandervelt, the
klapperman.
“After that fire the last time, he wanted to check his house. We knew our families were safe . . .” His voice trailed off. “At least, we'd thought them safe.”

“Damn!” Martin knocked back a chair as he moved from the table. “Margaretha's there. Like you, I'd thought she'd be safe. I planned to bring her home later.”

“And my
moeder
is there,” John Ackerman said.

Several men spoke of their loved ones who'd been sheltered at the Van Voorhees' farm and who were now in the hands of the enemy.

“Kirsten,” Richard murmured, and Martin met his gaze, sharing his concern.

“There's ammunition in the cellar,” Martin said. “Load up. We're going to need it.”

Many of the men followed him from the common room to the workroom and the cellar stairs, but a few of the militiamen hung back. One was staring at Richard; Richard could tell from the man's angry expression that he was in for a bad time.

“Tory,” the man growled. “You're one of them. Thomas! John, don't let him go free! He's the enemy. He was with Greene!”

With Martin gone, Richard lacked the support of the only man who knew his true identity, so he was unable to stop those who grabbed him roughly and shackled him.

“All right, Canfield, what are their plans? What are you doing here?”

“I don't know their pl—” Richard's words were cut off when someone struck him across the mouth. His head snapped back under the force of the blow, and his lip split, spurting blood.

“The truth, Canfield! Tell us the truth!”

“I tell you, I don't know!”

The man raised his fist.

“He's telling the truth, Banta. Put down your fist and release him. He's one of us.”

The men turned at Martin's entry. “But, Hoppe—”

“I said, let him go. He's a Patriot working for Washington. We'd just been discussing his work when you came in.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why do you think he was here—alone? We were having a calm and pleasant discussion of his mission, of why he was with the Tory troops.”

“You believe Canfield?”

“His name's not Canfield. It's Maddox. Richard Maddox.”

“The Mad Ox,” one of the men said. “I've heard the name.” He stared at Richard. “Yours?”

Richard nodded, feeling relieved as John Ackerman undid his shackles and he was able to stand and rub his wrists. His flesh was tender there for he'd been bound twice in the past twenty-four hours. He bent to soothe his sore ankles.

“What do we do now? How do we know how best to handle them?”

“Richard?” Martin asked.

“Greene is a madman. We'll have to move cautiously. I don't trust him at all.”

There were various muffled comments from the group.

“Can we do it?” Garret Vandervelt said. “Can we free our families?”

Richard studied each of the men. “Will you trust me to help? Do you believe in my loyalty?”

The men became quiet as each thought on his words and tried to decide.

“I trust him.” Martin was the first to speak up, and Richard grinned at him, pleased. Martin didn't return his grin, but looked at the others grimly, waiting for each individual's answer.

“I don't know,” Jonathan Hopper said. He was the commander of the militia, so his opinion held a lot of weight. He eyed his cousin. “You believe him?” he asked Martin, who nodded. “I shall trust him also.”

Richard sighed with relief as each of the men followed their commander's lead.

“Arm yourselves,” he said after the men had looked to him for direction. “We'll travel together to the Van Voorhees' farm. There we'll split up into two groups, one to approach from the front of the house, one to attack from the back. We can break into four groups if necessary.” He picked up a knife from the table, the one Martin had used to cut the bread. “Bring knives as well as guns. You may need them. The Tories are a cunning lot. Get your weapons and return here quickly.”

“Hurry!” Martin encouraged.

And the men left to equip themselves.

 

 

Kirsten and her mother were separated from Kirsten's father and thrust into the parlor of the Van Voorhees's house, where the Tories had imprisoned a number of women and children. The chamber was a fairly good-sized one, but even so, it was too small for the number of occupants. Every available chair was taken. Kirsten and Agnes were forced to sit on the floor near the fireplace. Since it was November and the weather was cool, there was a fire burning brightly. As her mother went to sit down, Kirsten made sure she was a safe distance away from the threat of escaping sparks.

To Kirsten's relief, the men hadn't tied them, having felt there was no need to. Perhaps they thought women and children too weak and vulnerable to be capable of escaping under any circumstances. Whatever their reasoning, Kirsten was grateful. Her wrists and ankles still pained from being bound earlier.

She studied her mother with concern. Agnes had nearly gone out of her mind when James had been dragged from her side. She looked haggard. Her eyes were dull, their expression lifeless.

“They'll kill him!” Agnes wailed. “I know they will.”

“You don't know that,
Moeder,”
Kirsten responded, stroking her parent's arm.

“They will if William has a say about it! You heard him—William never liked James!”