Rapture's Betrayal (14 page)

She dropped her basket and started to run. “Richard!”

He froze. She could see the tension in his broad shoulders and back as he turned. There was a question in his gaze that tugged at her heartstrings . . . a look of hope . . . of joy . . . as she rushed toward him.

“Richard,” she gasped as she stopped before him. She suddenly felt shy of him. “Please be careful.”

His look was an intimate caress touching her flesh. Her skin tingled. Her face burned. She felt physically alive.

“This is a time of war, Kirsten.”

She nodded in understanding, her eyes filling with tears. It hadn't been his intention to hurt her. “I know,” she said, her tone revealing her anguish. “It's only that—” She caught back a sob, for she knew a future with him was out of the question.

Richard groaned harshly and pulled her into his arms, his mouth demanding, his tongue delving deeply between her lips. Her brain spun, and her body pulsed with feeling. The man she loved was holding her as if he didn't want to let her go.

He lifted his head and held her close, burying his face in her hair. “Good-bye, Kirsten.”

“Good-bye, Richard,” she managed to choke out. He released her, his hands lingering. He touched her cheek, and her tears fell; she couldn't control them.

And she whirled and left him to fight the war on the wrong side. He was her enemy, but she loved him.

 

 

I'm glad Richard's gone,
Kirsten thought on her way to meet Miles. The man wasn't what he'd seemed. Greene had called him Canfield.
My God, he even lied to me about his name!

The Tories had left as Richard had predicted. Word had reached the Van Atta homestead during the early morning. A member of the militia had been on watch last night at the road leading from the Randolph farm. The news spread through the village like wildfire as runners went to all Patriot homes. The residents of Hoppertown could rest easier at night.

The day was a hot one, the July sun searing, and the humidity was at an all-time high. Perspiring heavily by the time she reached the clearing, Kirsten looked longingly at the river. The Hohaukus was a narrow body of water. Its crystal clear depths looked cool and inviting.

She tugged off her footwear and, skirts hiked to her knees, waded into the refreshing stream. She was careful not to slip or hurt her feet on the rocks scattered about the river bed. Splashing with her feet, she knew that Miles and Jims would find her at any moment.

Time passed. Kirsten gingerly walked about, enjoying the cold water on the hot day. Branches hung overhead, shading the area, and she moved a distance upriver to a spot where the bottom was rock free and soft. She waded there for a time, watching for Miles. But still he didn't come.

She made her way to a flat boulder near the shore. Although she longed to shed her clothes to fully enjoy the water's depths, she knew that would be unwise in full daylight. Perhaps one night soon she'd return alone to swim . . . armed. Kirsten knew a moment's sadness. How could she swim here while a war was going on and she could be accosted by any bloodthirsty, crazed soldier who came to Hoppertown?

Where is Miles?
She was concerned, for it was a long while after the arranged meeting time. Had Jims forgotten to tell him? Was Richard mistaken? Had Miles left with the Tory band?

She waded out of the water, watchful of her footsteps over the rocky ground. By chance, she found a man's cocked hat—made of black fur felt-caught in the branches of a thick forest bush. Curious, she reached in and retrieved it, noting the military cockade and the silk band. It had a drawstring. She turned it over and saw tiny lettering inside the brim, but couldn't read it. Someone had stitched on the soldier's initials.

“Kirsten.”

She looked up at her cousin with relief. Without reason or thought, Kirsten tucked the hat into a fold of her skirts, out of Miles's sight. “I'd begun to fear that you weren't coming.”

He hobbled toward her, grimacing. “Tough to get about these days.”

“So I heard.” Kirsten studied his arm, which was in a sling, before her gaze dropped to his feet. “I'm glad.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Well, you're here in Hoppertown, and the Tories have left.”

Miles found a perch on a tree stump. “Bit of good luck—that falling crate.”

“Do you know how it happened?” She was mildly curious.

The youth shook his head. “No one about but that fellow Canfield. He was cleaning his rifle. Said he didn't see anything.”

Kirsten jerked with surprise. “Canfield,” she echoed.
Richard?

“Yellow hair, brown eyes. Good-looking sort. The others say he's a reputation with the ladies.”

“Oh?” Her heart skipped a beat. “What kind of reputation?”

Flushing, Miles shifted uncomfortably under Kirsten's gaze. “It's not something a man likes to discuss with a female. Not with his cousin anyways.”

And Kirsten understood. Her chest felt tight. How many other women besides her had Richard lain with? Five? Ten? Twenty? She was appalled.

“Father went into a rage when the accident occurred,” Miles told her. “Furious about my injuries, and because I couldn't fight.” He shuddered. “I'm no soldier, and I never will be one.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“Word has it that Washington and his men are coming.”

It was the first Kirsten had heard of this. “Who told you?”

“Jims. He was at the tavern when the messenger came.”

General Washington here? Kirsten was astonished and excited by the prospect of meeting the great general of the Continental Army. There would be some folk, however, who wouldn't be gladdened by the news. “Does your father know?”

Miles shrugged. “I doubt it, but he'll learn soon enough.”

Kirsten put on her stockings and shoes. “Where are you going?” Miles said with a scowl. “I only just arrived!”

“To tell
vader
about the general.”

“He's probably heard about it already,” her cousin grumbled, but Kirsten wouldn't be swayed. “When will I see you again?” he asked.

She finished and rose, brushing dirt and dead leaves from her skirts. “I'll send word.”

Kirsten turned, still carrying the cocked hat she'd found, unwilling to leave it to decay in the woods. She had no idea why she wanted it.
It's a perfectly good hat,
she reasoned.

Miles stared at her, scowling. “Damn it, Kirsten. If you think I'm going to walk here with this foot for just a few minutes of your time—”

Kirsten turned back and regarded him with hands on hips, the hat caught by a few fingers. “Where's Jims?” she demanded.

Miles blushed. “Back on the farm. I wanted to come alone.”

“Then suffer, Miles Randolph, if your pigheadedness and pride prevents you from accepting Jims's help!”

Paramus. To the Dutch known as
Peremus.
It was there, a mile out of Hoppertown, Washington's men made camp. They came on July 10th and made their quarters on the flats not far from the
kerk
where the Dutch residents gathered to attend religious services. Kirsten rode her mount along the turnpike through the forest and past homes. She was on her way to see the great Patriot leader, General George Washington.

Excitement welled within her breast as she neared the encampment and saw the tents and the men wandering about. She frowned after a moment's study of them. The soldiers looked a sorry lot, not like great heroes of war. She'd expected the troops directly under Washington's command to be resplendent in fancy blue and buff uniforms with shiny brass buttons, sporting well-kept muskets and gleaming sharp swords.

The men she observed were without shoes and stockings. A few had footwear, but their clothes were threadbare and, in many cases, torn. Still, they seemed a proud bunch and held their heads high. Hungry and tired they might be, but they were true Patriots, dedicated to liberty and freedom's cause.

Here in Hoppertown, the soldiers' hunger would be satisfied, for the land was rich and plentiful, the villagers more than willing to share their cherished supplies. Kirsten was glad Washington had elected to stop here in his journeys of war. It was a good place for the soldiers to renew both their bodies and spirits.

Kirsten was conscious of the soldiers' curious gazes on her as she entered their camp. Dressed in a riding habit of forest green, she rode Hilga, her faithful mare. She was hot, but dignity forced her to wear her jacket. However, she left open the buttons and felt somewhat cooler for it. Otherwise she looked most proper in her weskit and white linen shirt. She rode astride, unlike most women. Her full skirts accommodated the girth of the horse.

She reined in Hilga before a tent where a guard was posted. The tent probably belonged to someone of importance. From her high seat, she called out to the young man who stood sentinel.

“Mynheer,”
she said. “Could you direct me to the general? I must speak with him.”

“And who are you?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

“I am a resident of Hoppertown. My family is well known in the area. My ancestors, the Hoppes, came across the seas from the low countries. They settled this region.” She brushed back a lock of silver blond hair, wiping her damp brow with the back of her hand. “I have come to offer the general some assistance. May I please see him?”

Just then another man came forward from beyond a row of tents. There was purpose to his stride; his manner displayed self-confidence. An officer, Kirsten decided.

“Is there something amiss, mistress?” he inquired, eyeing her with the wariness of one who trusts few. The officer turned to the guard. “Rhoades?”

“The mistress would like to speak with the general, sir.”

The newcomer looked at her. “I'm Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton. Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton.”

Kirsten stared. She'd heard about Alexander Hamilton, of course. He was the general's aide-decamp and confidential secretary. Was this truly Washington's most trusted man?

“Mynheer,”
she said, “I'm a Patriot with great respect for General Washington. I assure you that I mean him no harm. I simply wish to speak with the commander.”

“Your name, mistress?” Hamilton asked.

“Kirsten Van Atta. My cousin, Martin Hoppe, owns the tavern under the huge elm trees. Perhaps you are familiar with it?” He nodded. “My father is a
boer
—a farmer. Many come to us because of our mill. You can ask anyone in Hoppertown of us.”

The lieutenant colonel's face softened. “A moment, please.”

The man slipped into the tent, and within seconds the flap opened once again behind the guard to reveal the commander of the Continental troops.

“General,” Kirsten breathed. “Mynheer Washington.”

He was a big-boned man, tall, very tall. A bout with smallpox had marked his face, she noted, but he was still a surprisingly attractive man.

“You have a need to see me?” His voice and manner were pleasant.

Kirsten glanced about, suddenly conscious that she'd drawn the attention of the men. Her gaze returned to the general. “May I speak with you—in private?”

“Are you armed?” the young guard said. “Sir”—he addressed Hamilton—“could she be armed?”

She was shocked and outraged. “Indeed I'm not! What need have I to bear arms here?”

The general appeared to stifle a smile as he waved her inside his tent. “Come in then—Mistress Van Atta, is it?”

She nodded and then preceded General George Washington into his temporary quarters.

Once inside, the commander was the perfect gentlemen. He obviously believed that she was no threat either to himself or his men. He pulled up a chair for her, the only seat available in his quarters. When she started to refuse his offer, he insisted that he'd been sitting for too long, penning letters, and needed to stretch his legs.

Kirsten's first thought upon hearing this that the inside of a tent was hardly the place for the general to stretch his legs. But she wasn't in a position to contradict him. “Thank you, General,” she murmured and took the seat.

The tent was furnished Spartanly with just a cot and one blanket, a wooden, lap writing desk and the chair upon which she sat.

Her impression of the commander, upon closer inspection, was that he was larger than any other man of her acquaintance. He wore his brown hair in a ribbon-tied bag. His eyes, she noted, were startling, being a clear, sparkling shade of gray-blue. And he was dressed better than some of his subordinates. She couldn't help but see the contrast. His blue uniform jacket was finely cut, as were his breeches. And his boots were polished. She gasped. Such large boots!

He watched her and must have read her thoughts about the difference between his appearance and that of his men, for his expression suddenly became dark.

“I'm sorry, General. I couldn't help but notice . . .” She bit her lip, aware of her blunder. One didn't insult the commander of the rebel forces, not intentionally or otherwise.

He nodded, his face softening. “My men. It is true some of them—many of them—need clothes, uniforms. Those you first saw are from a regiment which lost its command. We stumbled upon them after the battle at Monmouth.”

Pain was evident in the general's gaze, regret for the outcome of the battle which had taken many Patriot lives.

Kirsten made some appropriate response. What she actually said she had no idea, for the moment was an uncomfortable one.

Washington seemed to shed his gloom then. “Now, my dear,” he said, “how may I help you?”

“
Mynheer
—General—it is not what you can do for me that brings me here. It is what I can do for you. I want to help the cause. I'm a Patriot, a true believer in independence from the English king. I am here to offer you my services. Whatever I can do to assist, please tell me, and I shall endeavor to accomplish it.”

The man's eyes twinkled. “That is most kind of you, dear lady. I must say I am surprised by your offer. It is not often that a young woman of your sort comes to me offering anything.”

Kirsten gasped, affronted. “I did not mean—”

Washington held up his hand. “My words were not meant to insult. I speak in all sincerity. If I could think of something for you to do, I would do so and gladly, for I would have the utmost confidence that by your willingness and determination and dedication to the cause you would get the job done.”

She nodded, mollified by his words of praise. “Name it,
mynheer.”
Her eyes glowed with the fervor of her convictions. When a mental image of Richard Maddox rose to haunt her, she firmly pushed it away, unwilling to be taken in by his lying, deceitful Tory charm.
Freedom,
she thought. Only then would they live in happiness and peace.

The general paced the tent floor, his head bent slightly as he reached each end to accommodate his height under the slope of the roof. “You will watch and listen and report if you suspect treachery.”

“Treachery?” she echoed.

“A good officer finds his most valuable assets in the loyalty and honor of those who work under him. If, Mistress Van Atta, you could keep your eyes open and your ears alert for signs of betrayal, I would be ever in your debt.”

Disappointed, but hiding it well, Kirsten nodded.
What does he mean by that?
But she didn't want to question him, for she was unwilling to appear ignorant. What kind of servant would she be if she seemed ignorant?

“Thank you, General. I will do what I can. And if I hear anything?”

“Report to my man—Hamilton. I believe you've met?”

Glancing in the aide's direction, Kirsten nodded, and with a soft word of farewell to both men, she left the general's camp. As she rode Hilga home, she felt strangely disappointed with General Washington. While his size was impressive, he seemed an ordinary man to her, not the great master of war, the man to lead the Patriot forces to freedom and liberty.

He found my offer amusing,
she thought with indignation. “As if a mere female couldn't possibly do anything to further the cause,” she said aloud.

She climbed off the mare before the stable, handing the reins over to Pieter, who would see to Hilga's care.

Stopping the groom when he would have turned away, she said. “I saw General George Washington today. Have you seen him?”

Pieter shook his head. “They say he's a great man. What manner of man is he?”

Kirsten shrugged. “A man . . . just a man.” Would he be able to win this war? “Where's
Vader?”
she asked.

Pieter looked at her a long moment, obviously confused as to the direction of their conversation. “He's in the house with your
moeder.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, eyeing her as if she were addlepated. She smiled at him and headed toward the house.

“Moeder
. . .
Vader.”

“Kirsten,” her mother exclaimed, “where have you been? Pieter said you took Hilga. Where did you go?”

Kirsten glanced toward her father. “To the soldiers' camp.”

Agnes gasped, and her father frowned.

“It's all right. I spoke to the general. He was . . . most kind.” She faced her father. “Have you met with him,
Vader?”

“You shouldn't have gone there,” he told her. “It is not proper for a young woman of your background to go there alone.”

She stiffened. “I wasn't harmed.”

“When you left here, you couldn't know that for certain,” he said, scowling.

“But they are Patriots,
Vader!”

“They are soldiers. And first and foremost they are men—flesh and blood men who have been a long time without their women. Many of them have seen too much fighting. You could have been apprehended in a secluded area—ravished or worse.”

Kirsten made a disparaging sound. “He is supposed to be a great leader. Do you think he'd allow his men to touch an innocent woman?”

“No, Kirsten, I know he would not. However, by the time the men were caught in their misdeed, it might have been too late. You must not return there, daughter.”

“Yes,
Vader.”
She had already decided that she wouldn't return to the camp alone. Next time, she'd take Pieter with her. Better yet, Martin Hoppe.

“Jonathan is to speak to the general tonight,” James Van Atta said. “He's to offer the services of our militia. Our men are eager to assist.”

His daughter stifled a grin. She had thought of it first. Her smile faded. Washington wouldn't find Jonathan Hopper's offer amusing, she mused.

“What is the general like?” her father asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

And Kirsten proceeded to relate her experiences with the man. She left out the embarrassing parts. Like when he'd assumed she'd come offering herself as camp follower.

 

 

“Hell and damnation!” Edmund Dunley bellowed. “The man's presence here will ruin everything!”

“Not to mention the troops he brought with him,” William Randolph said. He appeared thoughtful as he studied his two cohorts. Edmund Dunley and Bernard Godwin were beginning to get on his nerves with all their caterwauling and complaints. They had a job to do and they would do it, whether General George Washington was in the vicinity or not.

“What are we going to do?” Godwin asked. He twisted his hands in his lap, clearly anxious at this new turn of events.

“It may be to our advantage that he's come,” Randolph said. “Have you forgotten our connection? There are others like him among the general's troops, I'm sure. Disgruntled and tired wretches, they wish only to go back to their homes, and forget they ever encountered their ‘great leader' and his bloody so-called cause.”

“You think this true?”

“Yes, Edmund, I do.” Randolph drew deeply from his pipe. “I do, indeed. Why don't you go back to your homes and relax. I'll send word in three days. It'll give me plenty of time to make contact with Rhoades and find out what he's learned. Who dares to guess, but this may actually speed up the war, bringing victory to us once and for all!”

“I hope you're right, Will.”

William Randolph regarded Godwin steadily. The man was obese, a true glutton. He himself had been disgusted by the amount the man devoured at a meal and the manner in which it was consumed. “Am I not usually right?”