Savage Destiny (The Hearts of Liberty Series, Book 1) (11 page)

Once they began their journey over land, Hunter's duties as a scout would keep him constantly moving ahead of the regiment. That fact had at first prompted him to simply ignore the jokes told at his expense, but he had paid close attention to those telling them. He soon learned Vernon Avey wasted no opportunity to make others look foolish. He was a surly fellow, mean-spirited and belligerent. In his late twenties, he was one of the older recruits, but made no effort to set a good example for the younger men.

Vernon was shadowed by Willis Hoag and Hank Jepsen, whose loyalty bought them immunity from his vicious taunts. Like birds perched along the peak of a roof, they lined up at Vernon's elbow, ready to double-over with laughter whenever he chose someone to ridicule. Because none of the recruits were seafaring men, simply traversing the deck without stumbling and falling was a challenge. Cleverly avoiding drawing ridicule upon himself, Vernon spent his time leaning back against the rail, where from a secure footing he provided a malicious commentary on the mishaps befalling those who could not easily cross the deck with a sailor's rolling gait.

While none of the accidents he found hilarious were serious, being humiliated by Vernon was so painful that the men began to avoid him. Frustrated by the diminishing supply of fodder upon which to feed his sarcasm, Vernon shifted his target to Hunter. The Indian was too agile to call clumsy, and too handsome to draw criticism for his looks. He was Indian, however, and that fact inspired Vernon to plummet to new depths of tastelessness.

Hunter could excuse such insufferable ignorance for just so long, but after a particularly demeaning remark about the length of his hair, he crossed the deck, stood close, folded his arms over his chest, adopted an impassive expression, and stared down at the man who had spoken it. Vernon's blond hair, light brows, and pale lashes provided little definition for his features, which not even his mother would describe as attractive. His eyes were a pale blue and reminded him of a fish, Hunter laughed to himself before offering a jest of his own.

"Even a fish has sense enough to know when to shut his mouth. If you're not that smart, then I will shut yours for you."

Vernon looked to Willis and Hank for protection, but both men had begun to sidle away when Hunter had first approached, and clearly he was on his own. Infuriated that an Indian would dare to make fun of him, he doubled his fists at his sides and threw out his chest. He was skilled at making light of the misfortunes of others, but his usually sharp tongue failed him, and all he succeeded in doing was puffing himself up until he resembled an amorous bullfrog during a midnight serenade.

Hunter waited, his feet braced should he have to block a punch, but Vernon lacked the courage to hit him. Finally the fair-haired bully looked away, his expression still defiant, but his silence damning. Hunter could have walked away then, but he didn't. He kept staring at Vernon until he finally broke away from the rail and, still not hazarding a glance up at him, scurried back to the stern, where the men gathered there hurriedly moved aside to avoid him. Still not content, Hunter turned toward Willis and Hank, but his challenging stare prompted them to flee to the bow.

Hunter had learned from experience that once he had proven a man lacked the courage to repeat a joke to his face, he would have no more trouble with him. Unfortunately, there always seemed to be another man willing to test the limits of his patience. Had one of those belligerent clods—rather than the Barclays—approached him and offered a job as a scout, he would have refused it. Byron and Elliott had always treated him with respect, however, and it was his loyalty to them that kept him from quitting as soon as he reached the bottom of the gangplank in Alexandria. He had not complained of the way he had been treated, and he was surprised when Elliott apologized for the troops' lack of manners.

"Give them a couple more days," he encouraged the Indian. "Seeing how easily you move through the forest will put a stop to their teasing faster than anything I could say."

"It's not my skill they're questioning," Hunter replied. "They're laughing because I'm Indian, and no matter how far I lead them, I will be Indian still."

Unable to contradict him, Elliott looked to Byron for a response, and his older brother quickly obliged. "These men were hired to fight, not think, and that accounts for their lack of judgment. If they ever stopped to consider the differences between you, they'd quickly realize you're worth at least three of them, and none of them wants to face that."

Hunter turned to look back at the troops filing off the ship. Even if they weren't bright, they were young and strong, but none had impressed him as being invaluable to the Ohio Company's cause. "Only three?" he asked. "A Seneca brave is easily worth twice that."

Elliott's eyes widened at Hunter's boast, and amused, Byron feigned a punch to his brother's ribs. "He's teasing you. Now come on, let's report in and make certain Washington hasn't left without us."

Hunter followed, but he made no more immodest boasts when he was introduced to Col. Joshua Fry, the Oxford-educated Englishman commanding the Virginia regiment, or Lt. Col. George Washington. He had heard the Barclays speak of Washington several times, but they had not mentioned he was only twenty-three years old, or of such an imposing height they would all have to look up at him. That Washington would make a splendid target was Hunter's first thought, but he was favorably impressed.

After questioning Hunter to satisfy himself the scout was familiar with the terrain they would cover, Colonel Fry announced his intention to remain in Alexandria to drill half the regiment, while Washington went on ahead with the rest of the troops. They would take supply wagons and follow the trail paralleling the Potomac River to the Ohio Company's storehouse at Will's Creek. From there, Washington would use pack animals to cross the Alleghenies and reach the fort they believed to be under construction at the junction of the Monongahela and Allegheny rivers.

Not wishing to appear ignorant, Hunter drew Byron aside. "Who is building the fort?" he whispered.

"Capt William Trent. He's an Indian trader from Pennsylvania. He's in charge of the Ohio Company's post at Redstone Creek. Do you know him?"

"Yes. He's an honest man."

"Governor Dinwiddie agrees, and asked him to gather volunteers to build the fort, but Washington's the one who chose the location. There's an Ensign Ward with Trent, and they should have the fort completed by the time we get there."

Barring interference from the French, Hunter thought to himself. "Your troops can't become lost on the way to Will's Creek. I'm going to go on ahead and meet you there."

"No, you'll stay with us," Byron argued.

So as not to create a scene in front of their superior officers, Hunter waited until the Barclays had been dismissed to repeat his request, but the minute the three of them were alone, he made the reason for his decision clear. "You'll be following the river, so I won't be needed until later," he explained.

"No, that's not true," Byron insisted. "I'll admit our troops are a surly lot and unused to discipline, but that will soon change. By the time we reach the Ohio Valley, they'll have learned how to follow orders. They'll also have learned how greatly we rely on you. But if you leave us now, they'll have no opportunity to observe your skill."

"I don't need anything from them," Hunter reminded him. "They are the ones who need me."

Byron nodded. "Yes, that's certainly true, and while they don't appreciate that fact as yet, we do. I'm asking you to stay with us, but if I have to, I'll make it an order."

Hunter laughed. "I'm not one of your soldiers."

"Perhaps not, but you have given your word that you'll scout for us, and I expect you to keep it."

"You may be the ones to release me from that promise."

Confused, Byron looked toward Elliott before replying. "I know you won't get us lost, so why would we dismiss you?"

Hunter wore his knife in a beaded sheath on his belt. He rested his palm on the hilt as he spoke. "I demand the same respect as a white man, and because you give it, we have become friends. Some of your troops are not as generous, and it might cost them their lives. Am I worth that risk?"

The seriousness of Hunter's expression conveyed his conviction, and Byron understood the Indian was speaking about conflicts which would be an almost certain eventuality. It was not simply a matter of pride either, for there were men who equated Indian scouts with hunting dogs, and he was no more tolerant of such blatant prejudice than Hunter. "I heard that you put Vernon Avey in his place without having to strike a single blow. I think you'll be able to handle similar problems without bloodshed."

"And if I'm not?"

With that question, Byron had been pushed too far. "What do you expect from me, permission to kill whomever you dislike?"

"No, merely permission to defend myself."

"Every man has that right."

"Even an Indian?"

"Yes!"

Satisfied for the moment, Hunter nodded before turning away, but he intended to pursue their discussion until Byron agreed that taking a white bride was also among an Indian's rights.

Byron waited until he could not be overheard to speak to his brother. "Have we made a mistake?" he asked. "After all, what do we really know about Hunter?"

Elliott was understandably confused by Byron's apparent change of heart. "If you had reservations about his character, we shouldn't have taken him home with us. But except for the fact he didn't bother to excuse himself before leaving the farewell party, he was the perfect guest."

The thought of Hunter dancing with the delightfully demure Frederick sisters was so amusing, Byron could not help but smile. "That was probably our fault. He was undoubtedly too embarrassed to admit he didn't know any of our dances."

"Even if he had, would the girls have danced with him?"

"Alanna surely wouldn't, but Melissa probably would have. As for Sarah and Robin—" Byron paused a moment and then shook his head. "No, they would have gone home early rather than have danced with an Indian brave."

"Then it's a damn good thing he had sense enough to leave, rather than risk spoiling the party, so I'll not fault him for a lack of manners. Now let's just see he stays with us when he's in camp, and that ought to minimize the danger of anyone offending him." Elliott clapped Byron on the back, and the matter settled, they turned their attention to other duties.

* * *

For the first couple of nights after Hunter had left their home, Melissa lay awake until the pale pink rays of dawn filled the sky. It was only then that the burden of her dreadful secret lifted long enough for her to sleep, but her tortured soul filled her dreams with taunting memories of a dark-eyed man whose kisses were divine, and she awoke as exhausted as when she had gone to bed. She had successfully pretended to be in good spirits for her family's benefit, but on Sunday morning, the prospect of attending church and attempting to fool the whole town was too much for her. She complained of a severe headache and remained in bed while her parents and Alanna went into Williamsburg. She could hear the servants moving around downstairs, making the preparations for Sunday dinner, but while the familiar sound of their voices should have been reassuring, it was not.

Melissa drew in a deep breath and exhaled with a sob. If only she could sleep, she knew she would be much better able to cope. Brandy had helped one night, but she dared not rely on it. Not only would her father notice it was disappearing too fast, she knew men had nothing but contempt for women who drank. There were men who frequently got so drunk at the Raleigh Tavern they could not sit their horses to ride home, and no one thought less of them, but should a woman ever become tipsy, it was a cause of endless gossip and shame. She had trouble enough without inviting the kind brandy could bring.

Her mother had brought her a cup of chamomile tea before leaving for church, and although it had grown cold, Melissa sipped it slowly. She did not really have a headache, so it did not matter what she took to cure it, but she knew she could not continue to live indefinitely in such a miserable state. It was a great pity she hadn't felt well enough to attend church, because Ian Scott was usually there, and she did so want to see him. Just the thought of his charming smile brought a tear to her eye, and she had to set her teacup aside. She lay down and tried to think only of Ian, for his sweet teasing had always amused her. She would never need him more.

* * *

At Melissa's urging, Alanna wore another of her cousin's stylish gowns to church, and while she made a sincere effort not to glance in Randolph O'Neil's direction during the service, she nevertheless found herself doing just that. Each time their eyes met he would nod and smile, while she would blush and force her attention back to her prayer book. Merely curious, she had not meant to encourage him, but at the end of the service, when everyone gathered in front of the church to talk before going home, he hurried to her side.

"Good morning, Miss Barclay," he began in an enthusiastic rush. "I don't recall your ever being as beautiful as you are today."

Uncertain whether or not that was a compliment, Alanna hesitated a moment too long before replying. "Thank you."

Her delay made Randolph realize his remark had been ambiguous, if not just plain stupid, and he hastened to apologize. "Not that you don't always look pretty, of course, you do, but usually, well, I guess what I mean is your gown is especially attractive today. Pink is a very becoming color."