Rapture's Betrayal (10 page)

“Tom, sir. Tom Harris.” He entered the house and then stood awkwardly for a moment. “Your cousin Martin sent me. He said to tell you about the Tories in Hoppertown.” His brown eyes glowed with anger. “One of them molested me sister. That's how I got this black eye.” He gestured toward the injured eye. “I tried to take him, I did. I would've had him too if there hadn't been more than five of them. Thankfully, I had help—a couple of farmers.

“We're staying at the tavern, sir,” he continued. “Me mother and us children are on our way north to me aunt's in Albany.”

“These Tories—what can you tell me about them?”

Kirsten drew up a chair for the boy, who flashed her a a smile of gratitude before he made his reply.

“Not much to tell, I'm afraid,” Tom said. “There's several of them—mean sonuvabitches.” He blushed as if suddenly remembering there were ladies present.

Kirsten stifled a small smile when her father snorted. “Tom, did Martin say anything else?” she asked gently.

The lad nodded his thanks as she handed him a damp cloth. “There's to be more of them.” He held the wet linen up to his swelling eye. “They're to meet here in Hoppertown with some man named Randolph.”

Kirsten heard her mother's startled gasp.

“He said to tell you there's to be a meeting tomorrow morning at the tavern,” Tom went on. “And for you to be there.”

“And that's all?” James's expression looked like thunder. The boy nodded. “Are you sure?”

Tom was clearly taken aback by the man's sudden brusqueness, and Kirsten took pity on him. “I'm certain he's sure,
Vader,”
she said softly. She turned to the young man. “Are you hungry, Tom? Would you like something to drink?”

James's face softened. “You're right, daughter. Where are my manners. Have something to eat, boy. You must be hungry after your run.” He frowned. “Do you have more stops?”

Tom shook his head. “None, sir. You're my last.”

Kirsten's father nodded with satisfaction. “Eat then.”

“Come on, Tom.” Kirsten lit a candle from her father's taper and helped the boy to rise.

“Kirsten,” her father called as the two headed toward the pantry at the back of the house, “give Tom a glass of brandy.”

The youth's face brightened. “Thank you, sir.”

Left alone with her husband, Agnes gazed at him with horror-stricken eyes. “James, about William—what does this mean?”

“Damn him!” James cried. “Damn that rotten Tory bastard!”

“James!” She reeled with shock. “He's my brother!”

“He's a lying, murdering bastard!” He regretted the outburst when his wife began to cry. He drew her into his arms and stroked her back, trying to comfort her. “Agnes, I'd give anything in this world if I could stop this from hurting you.”

He had an inkling of what William was planning, and the thought of it forced a chill along his spine.

“Can't you miss the meeting? Forget all of this . . . ?” She stopped when she saw the thunderous look on her husband's face.

“I'm sorry, wife, but that I cannot do.” He regarded his spouse with a worried gaze. “Not even for you.”

 

 

“Your name is Kirsten?” Tom asked.

Kirsten nodded as she set down a plate of
olijkoecks
and then took a seat across from him at the scarred dining table. She smiled. Her brow furrowed when Tom stared at her thoughtfully. “Is something wrong?”

“No . . . no.” He shook his head. “It's just that I met this man.” He paused, gazed at her unbound hair. Self-conscious, Kirsten raised a hand to tame the wayward strands.

“No, you couldn't be the one,” the young man said.

Man?
she thought with a scowl. She perked up. Richard? “Man . . . what man?”

Her heart raced and her breath quickened.
Calm down,
she told herself.
You're being foolish. It couldn't be Richard.

Tom picked up a cake from the plate before him. “What if you're not her? I promised not to tell anyone but her.”

She sighed, annoyed. “But I
am
Kirsten, didn't I just say so?” Tom hesitated. “Oh, never mind!” she burst out impatiently. “It couldn't have been that important.”

She rose and returned to the larder to pour Tom a measure of brandy.

“He
seemed to think so.”

“He?” Kirsten froze in the act of raising the bottle. Despite herself, her curiosity was piqued.

“We came across him south of here, near Elizabethtown. There's an inn there where we stayed the night.”

Tom bit down on a
olijkoeck
and continued his story with his mouth full. “This fellow appeared to hear that we was heading north. He comes by the table just as I was leaving. The others—they'd gone ahead to our room.”

Kirsten bit her lip as he took another bite.

“This fellow seemed friendly enough. And he was alone, too. So, when he comes over to my table, I thinks to myself, ‘this man's harmless, you can talk with him.'”

Tom gave her a funny look. “Can I have that brandy?”

Kirsten became aware of the empty cup in her hand. She poured him his measure and plopped the drinking vessel before him with a thud.

“The man?” she probed, clearly irritated.

Tom turned beet red. “Oh, yes, sorry.” The boy's face lit up as he took a sip, shuddering as the fiery liquid slid down his throat. “This fellow says, ‘If you meet a fair-haired woman with eyes the blue of the sky and her name is Kirsten, give her a message for me. Tell her I'm safe. Tell her I said good-bye.'”

Kirsten paled as Tom spoke. The man had been Richard! Her eyes misted, and the room blurred before her. Sending that message had been a dangerous and foolish thing to do, and she loved Richard for it.

“Are you all right?” Tom said.

“Fine.” Kirsten rasped. “Thank you for telling me this.” She met his gaze.

Tom stared at her and then shrugged. “You've got blue eyes and light hair, so you must be the right woman.”

Kirsten had to silently agree.

On June 27, 1778, General George Washington gave orders to General Charles Lee of the Continental Army to assume command of the American Advance Corps scheduled to attack Sir Henry Clinton's British troops. Lee scorned the assault as unimportant, and the Marquis de Lafayette along with Anthony Wayne moved out to do the job instead. Upon learning that the command was to include some 6,000 men, however, Lee changed his mind, ranting and raving that the job belonged to him. Washington reversed his decision; by military courtesy the right of command belonged to Lee. Shortly afterward, Lee set off to take the command from the Frenchman, Lafayette.

Once in control of the troops, Lee made no real effort to prepare for the battle. He blatantly disregarded his superior's orders. At 10
A.M.
the next day, Lee's army clashed with British troops near Monmouth Court House. Faced with the enemy's rear elements, General Lee ordered his army to withdraw. In so doing, he gave the British commander time to engage his main body of troops.

Richard Maddox, who had left Washington's company in Hopewell only two days prior to the attack, was stunned to hear of Lee's obvious cowardice. He knew how much Washington had relied on Lee. The man's failure to valiantly command the Continental Army, Richard felt, was treachery of the worst sort. What should have been a strong advance on the redcoats had been a hasty retreat instead. Richard understood the gravity of the situation. General Lee should be held accountable for his actions.

Richard had infiltrated a band of Tory soldiers, posing as a Loyalist, when he received word of the Continentals' losses. If not for Washington's sudden arrival on the scene, the rebel army would have fallen. The American troops had managed to hold their own despite the sordid heat, a temperature of a hundred degrees.

After indecisive action at the center of the Continental troops, Clinton's army had pulled back. General Washington prepared for renewed attack. But when the black of night ended the day's fighting, Clinton's army was gone. They'd retreated in the cover of darkness. Word had it the Britons had marched toward Middletown and then had escaped to New York by boat.

Was it possible, Richard wondered, that Lee had made a deal with the British, that he'd been aiding the enemy? Lee had been a British prisoner for a time, captured by General William Howe at Basking Ridge. Lee had later been exchanged for British prisoners.

By self-proclamation, Charles Lee was a master at the art of war; why did he then bungle the campaign by calling a retreat? Especially when the Continentals had no trouble holding their own . . .

When news came of Washington's decision to court-martial Lee, Richard silently applauded his chief commander. Such behavior in an officer was a disgrace as well as a poor example for the enlisted men. It could also mean grave danger to all in the Continental Army. Richard thought of the soldiers he knew and wondered how many of them had been there, how many had escaped death.

Glancing toward the Tory riding beside him, he felt a fierce hatred for his kind—Tories and the British troops that used the Loyalists to further their own ends.

When he'd first joined up with the Tory band, it had been extremely difficult for him to stand by and watch the havoc it wrought on innocent people. But the success of his mission depended on the Tories' acceptance of him.

The band had joined up with another force in their travels, and Richard Maddox, alias Ethan Canfield, played his part well, laughing as raucously as the rest of them. He took up their nasty habits like chewing tobacco and spitting on the ground. He gained a reputation for making use of the wenches. Amused eyes watched him each time he carried a struggling woman off into the bushes or behind a barn to have his rutting way with her.

Once out of sight, Richard immediately released the frightened ladies after obtaining their promise to remain silent. It was some consolation to know that by playing the lecher he was actually serving to protect the women of the cause. If it were not for him, he realized, more innocent young women would have been raped by these men. Instead, the men seemed satisfied to hear “Ethan's” description of the act, to enjoy his malicious delight in using his captives.

Richard had a knack for embellishing a tale, and the Tories hung on to his every word. He wasn't certain how much longer he could get away with this ruse, protecting some women with his “legendary prowess.” Lately, there were some who were looking to benefit from his experience, having expressed a desire to join in “Ethan's” fun. So far, Richard had been able to convince them that he needed to work alone, and that he was unable to perform with an audience.

Kendall Allen, though, might prove a problem. The man hadn't been easy to convince; Richard wasn't sure he'd been successful with that one.

He chanced a look in Allen's direction and was dismayed to find himself the target of the man's black gaze. He touched the brim of his hat in a mocking salute to Allen. Merritt Abernathy on his gray gelding reined in to ride beside him, and Richard saw Allen scowl before Abernathy's bulky frame blocked him from view.

“Canfield.” Abernathy was in awe of the tawny-haired man who was so obviously confident about his abilities.

Richard nodded a greeting. “Abernathy. I hear there's to be a raid . . .” He trailed off, waiting for Merritt to fill him in.

“Tomorrow night,” the man confirmed, “Near Hackensack. From there we go to Paramus to join up with Biv.”

“Biv?” Richard kept his excitement in check.

Abernathy bent his head as he patted his restless horse. “A local man with connections. He's promised us recruits.” He sighed. “We lost two good men before you came to us, Canfield. And one during that last raid near Springfield.” He regarded Richard through clouded eyes. “Ambushed by that damned militia! I can't believe it happened.”

Studying Abernathy, Richard almost pitied the poor fool. The skirmish had caused the death of Reinold Van Norden, Merritt's best friend. Van Norden had been Dutch, a Loyalist forced by his family to leave home and join the band. He recalled the pain of losing Alex and felt sympathy for Abernathy. Of the lot, Abernathy was the most cultured and likable. He had joined the Tory band not because of greed but because of a strict belief that the King should govern the colonies.

Richard studied each of the other members of the outfit—Allen, Abernathy, three brothers by the name of Greene, and a Hessian called Heinerman. Abernathy was the only trustworthy one. The rest took too much delight in vicious raids, in taunting the helpless. They were often more cruel with their captives than was necessary.

Richard's eyes twinkled as he met Abernathy's gaze. “In Hackensack,” he said, “are there any women?” He slowly fingered the leather reins, stroking the worn straps as a man would caress a woman's flesh.

Merritt's laughter rumbled out. “Hey! Canfield here wants to know if there are women in Hackensack!”

The air was rent with guffaws and cackles as all but Allen turned to regard Richard with vast amusement.

“Don't worry, mate,” said one of the Greenes. “You can bet your tail won't be wasted.”

“That's right, Ethan! There'll be plenty to fondle with your 'ot, grubby paws!”

“Paws!” Richard Maddox placed his hand over his heart. You wound me deeply, sir!”

The remark brought on another chorus of snickers.

“You'd best 'eal quickly then, Canfield,” another Greene brother shouted. “Sid couldn't possibly 'urt as much as the feisty claws of some dear lady.”

Richard grinned at the leader of the group. “You could be right there.” He smacked his lips noisily in anticipation.

 

 

Weeks had gone by, and still Kirsten couldn't forget her Continental soldier. When her courses came, she was both relieved and disappointed. The last thing she needed in this time of war was to bring an innocent babe into the world, but there was something riveting about the thought of holding Richard's child . . . a tiny someone they'd created together in love. Now she had nothing from her relationship with Richard.

He'd been gone for a long while, but he could have left yesterday, her memories of him were so clear. She yearned to hold him again, to feel his warm lips capturing her mouth, his hard body pressed against her.

Kirsten was in the garden, picking vegetables, when she remembered Richard's delight in the food she'd brought him. She recalled when he'd eaten the strawberries . . . the way the juice had drippled down his chin . . . her urge to lick it away.

Blushing, she straightened and, with basket in hand, headed toward the house. Would she never get over him?

She mentally scolded herself for her obsession with Richard.

“Moeder?”
she called out as she entered the house. She set her basket of fresh vegetables on the tableboard and then found her mother in the parlor mending a shirt.

Agnes looked up at her approach.

“Moeder
. . . are you crying?”

“Of course not.” Agnes sniffed as she plied needle into cloth. “Why would I be crying?”

Kirsten stared at her with concern.
“Moeder?”
A heavy silence descended as Agnes continued to work her needle. The younger woman sighed and then asked, “Where's
Vader?”

Agnes exclaimed as she pricked her finger. When her daughter murmured with concern, the woman began to cry in earnest. Tears fell unchecked down her pale, age-lined cheeks.

“I told him not to go, but he wouldn't listen!” She sobbed. “There's going to be trouble. I can feel it! He doesn't know William. He doesn't understand!”

“Are you talking about the meeting at the tavern?” Kirsten sat at her mother's knee. “You should not worry so.
Vader
knows what he's do—”

“No, he doesn't!” Agnes burst out, interrupting. “William won't forget. He'll get even!” She dropped her stitchery and caught hold of her daughter's hand, squeezing it painfully. “He always does! He'll hurt James, he'll hurt you!”

Kirsten straightened. “Nonsense, how can he hurt us? We can take care of ourselves.” Certain that her mother was overwrought, she attempted to soothe away Agnes' fears, but her words had little effect, for her mother was beyond listening.

“I'm going to Martin's,” Kirsten said. She would learn for herself of the men's plans. Without waiting for her mother's consent, she slammed out of the house and hurried toward the barn.

Her father had left on horseback. Kirsten, however, hitched Hilga onto the wagon, and within minutes, she was guiding the mare toward the Hoppertown tavern. She parked the wagon a good distance away and crept toward the building's open window.

 

 

“I say that we should form our own army!” Huddled beneath the open tavern window, Kirsten recognized the hoarse voice. It belonged to one of the Ackerman boys—John. “We have enough able-bodied men here!” he said. “Why should we rely on General Washington's army to provide protection? When was the last time Washington and his men stayed here? A month ago? Two months? Three?”

“He's right!” someone shouted, and a chorus of male voices agreed.

“But if we fight, who's going to farm in our absence?”

“We're not asking you to leave Hoppertown, Banta,” John Ackerman said. “You'll be free and on hand to bring in your own harvest. What we're needing is a militia of local men to guard what is ours!”

“Why not simply join the county militia if you want to fight? They're always looking for recruits.”

Kirsten jumped when her father answered.

“I suggest we contact the proper authorities and let them know we're forming our own detachment,” James Van Atta said with quiet authority. “All of you who feel you can leave Hoppertown are welcome to join the county troops wherever their activities lead them. However, we need several men to remain behind and set up camp near the village. There's an area north of Hoppertown Road that'd do nicely. Whether you leave or stay, your efforts to help the cause will be appreciated.”

A cramp seized Kirsten's leg, and she shifted to ease her discomfort. She was proud of her father and of the way the others listened to him. No one had said a word as he spoke.

“What of Randolph, Van Atta?” Kirsten heard the high-pitched whine along with scraping of a chair across the wooden floorboards. She'd know that tone anywhere! Dwight Van Graaf was a thin man with a hawkish nose and pale blue eyes that Kirsten felt could see right through you.

“He's your brother-in-law—what do you think he's up to?” There was a direct challenge in Van Graaf's remark.

Silence fell over the common room as all waited for Kirsten's father's response.

“I've had about enough . . .” Martin Hoppe began.

Peering through the slit in the curtain, Kirsten saw her father raise his hand. “It's a fair question, Martin. If anyone else doubts my allegiance, let him speak.”

No one made a sound, and Kirsten grinned.

“Van Graaf?” James asked.

With an awkward movement, Kirsten saw the man shake his head and resume his seat.

“I love my wife,” she heard her father say, “but I also love this land and what it stands for. I'd hoped and prayed that it wouldn't come to this, but I believe, gentlemen, that we have no choice. If I knew what William was up to, I'd tell you. Unfortunately, I'm just like the rest of you, wondering what the bastard is planning and praying we can somehow stop him before his plans are realized.”