Rapture's Betrayal (18 page)

“And what business is this?” he asked. He fanned his hand over her load, wooden crates. “You are perhaps denying the general supplies?”

Kirsten scowled. “We deny our Patriot brothers nothing! Have not your bellies been full since you came? Your thirst quenched? You have been offered our finest
kost
and
drank, mynheer.
Do not dare to suggest we do anything but!”

The young man seemed taken aback by her vehemence. The other drivers had climbed out of their vehicles to rally at Kirsten's side.

“We are merely preparing for a British invasion,” Hans Bogert said shortly, and Kirsten was surprised at his show of firmness. “Our village is small, but there are women and children to be protected.”

John Ackerman came forward, pushing his way past some of the other drivers. “You have food aplenty in your camp. When you leave here, we will see that you have more than enough to last for weeks. Why take what you cannot use, what would be put to better use in the safekeeping of women and children against the King's men!”

The guard eyed them narrowly. “I sincerely hope you tell the truth, dear lady.”

Martin came up from behind the others. “Lieutenant Rhoades!”

The soldier's face brightened. “Mr. Hoppe! I didn't see you there.”

“Obviously,” Martin said dryly, and the man blushed. “This lady you question is my cousin. Will you not allow us to pass without incident? She tells the truth, as do my friends here.” He gestured toward Hans and John.

The man nodded, apparently happy to trust the owner of the local tavern. “Certainly, Mr. Hoppe, if you vouch for them.”

“I ride with them,” Martin pointed out dryly. Lieutenant Rhoades gave a sharp command to his comrades, and the soldiers cleared off the road.

Returning to their vehicles, the drivers climbed back into the wagons. Kirsten's fingers gripped the handle of her rifle as she clicked to her horse and the wagon began to move. She felt the soldiers' eyes on her as she passed by. It wasn't until they'd reached the Van Voorhees' home that Kirsten was able to relax. It disturbed her to have felt so threatened by men under General Washington's command. The fear brought home the fact that war did strange things to men—all men. Would she ever truly feel safe again?

The Van Voorhees' home was large, with a double front door flanked by two windows on each side and five windows above it on the second floor. There were several outbuildings on the property—including a smokehouse, a summer kitchen, and a huge barn. All were kept in good order by Samuel Van Voorhees and his two sons, Johannes and Jacob. Sarah Van Voorhees, Samuel's wife, was a short slim woman with golden hair and a gentle disposition. She greeted Kirsten and her male helpers with a pleasant smile. It was quickly obvious to Kirsten that she had this lady's support in the work they were doing, that Sarah was sincere in her efforts to help the Hoppertown residents, her neighbors and friends.

Samuel Van Voorhees was a contrast to his wife, being tall and large boned with rippling muscles. The man was active in the local militia as were his fifteen-year-old twin sons. Seeing Samuel and his wife together, one would think them a strange pair, but it was obvious to Kirsten how taken they were with each other. The big, hefty man treated his small wife like fine-blown glass, while he showed his children brusque affection.

With the Van Voorhees males' help, the wagons were unloaded in record time, the goods stored in the cellar under the main house. Soon the Patriots were on their way home. After hearing about the encounter with the soldiers, Samuel and his sons insisted on escorting the wagons for part of the journey. When it appeared that Washington's men had returned to camp, the Van Voorheeses left for home.

Back in the safety of her father's house, Kirsten still couldn't forget the attitude of the guard, the implied threat of the soldiers' blockade. She had half a mind to speak to the general! Such behavior in his men wasn't right. The Hoppertown Patriots had been nothing but hospitable to his troops.

She would seek out General Washington in the morning, she decided.

A shot rang out in the night, and Richard ducked as the musket ball whizzed past him.

“To the other side,” he bellowed at Elias Greene. “Now!”

The man didn't move, but crouched, frozen in fear, behind a thicket on the left side of the dirt road, a few feet ahead of where they'd deserted their wagon of goods.

“Elias, for God's sake, move your arse across the road!” Richard shouted. He was positioned several yards away on the same side.

The man turned to look at Richard blankly. Richard cursed, wondering what to do next. At the first sign of Continental forces, they'd abandoned the cart of goods to take cover in the woods. Richard had run for an old oak with a huge trunk, while Elias had blindly fled until he'd reached a thicket of small evergreens. Richard and Greene had been on foot, guarding the left side of the vehicle, while Greene's brother Sid and the newest man, Joseph, flanked the right. The youngest Greene, John, drove the wagon with Merritt Abernathy. Kendall Allen and the others in the band stayed back at Randolph's farm, preparing a second run of goods to New York.

Richard rose up to glance across the dirt trail to the other side, but could see nothing. It was either fight or die like a helpless lamb. He raised the stock of his rifle to his shoulder, leveled the barrel, firing the flintlock toward empty space. These men were Patriot soldiers, and while they knew nothing of his work and would no doubt kill him if they got their hands on him, he couldn't shoot them.

He glanced back to the spot where Greene cringed like a coward, saw that he'd finally moved to the edge of the road. Gunfire rained beyond a thicket. The fighting was heavier on the other side of the road, and young Greene needed assistance.

He sighed as Elias slipped from behind one tree to the next and crossed the road. Richard knew he could hold this area on his own. If he got caught . . . He didn't dare think of that now, for he was a long way from General Washington's camp. There was no one here to vouch for him.

A nearby bush crackled as it moved, and Richard raised his rifle, training it on the swaying branches.
Go away,
he thought.
If you're a Patriot, I don't want to kill you. And it's too soon to destroy my cover.
The leaves rustled again, and then the action stopped. Whoever—whatever—it was had left.

Lowering his gun, Richard released a pent-up breath. The Patriots had climbed into the cart, and were now driving it away. The exchange of gunfire continued, but Richard watched with a half-smile. The Continental officer was a smart one. He'd gotten the message Richard had left him at that inn, had found the trail marks Richard had made.

The cart creaked as it rolled over rocks in the forest path. It was the noise of the wheels that had alerted the troops to the exact location of the smuggling party. Richard ducked low and moved back several yards, keeping himself hidden much as Greene had done. Most of the Patriot troops had gone; only one, or perhaps two, remained to continue the rain of rifle fire. Soon, the shooting stopped and the noise died down. It was quiet for a moment or two, and then Richard heard a cry of pain. Someone in the group must have taken a bullet.

Greene? He was a cocksure fellow, much like his older brother. Richard frowned, recalling Elias's earlier behavior and surprised to have seen marked fear in the man.

Richard crept through the woods and across the road to see what had happened to the Tory smugglers. He heard the soft murmur of voices . . . and the moan of a man in agony.

He skirted a copse and saw them—three men huddled over a fourth. There was one missing. Dead? Who had died and who was injured?

He gave their secret call before he approached.

“Canfield,” someone said. “Thank God you're all right.”

“Who's down?” he asked.

“Sid's dead. Abernathy here is hurt. Taken a ball to his left leg.”

Richard bent over the man to take a look. Abernathy had taken the piece in his thigh, and it didn't look good. Examining the open wound closely, Richard wondered how best to treat it . . . if it was worth trying. Could they remove the ball? The leg muscle had been ripped wide open; the ball must have hit the flesh in just the wrong way. Already the poor victim looked half dead.

“Joseph?” Richard glanced up at the newest member of the band for a second opinion.

“I don't know,” the man replied, his gaze doubtful, his brow creased into a frown of concern.

Greene looked shocked, his gaze unseeing, and another man—Greene's youngest brother John—was vomiting in the bushes after seeing his dead brother's body.

“Elias?” Richard asked.

“His brother is dead,” Joseph said. “No sense talking to him.”

He sighed. War was such a waste of human life. When would it be over? Would it ever be over?

He turned his attention to Merritt Abernathy. “Merritt? How are you feeling?”

The man didn't immediately answer, a testament to how hurt he was. Finally, his lips moved. “Like I've been skewered by a red-hot poker,” he managed to gasp. He attempted to crack a smile, but his grin resembled a grimace. “Damn, Canfield, but it hurts like hell.”

Recalling his own injuries, Richard felt sympathy for the man. These men might be Tories, but he'd come to know them. And in the end, they were just ordinary men like himself. He reached into his weskit pocket and removed a small bottle. “Here—drink this. It'll help ease the pain.”

Elias came alive at the sight of the liquor. “Give me that!” He made to snatch the bottle from Richard's grasp, but Richard clamped onto Elias's arm with his free hand, stopping him.

“The man's dying, you fool,” he hissed, his voice low. The shock of seeing Abernathy lying there had brought back the frustrations and horrors of the war. “Allow him a restful sleep.”

Greene stared at him hard. He had bloodstains on his shirt, and lines of pain ran from his eyes and across his forehead. He made a pathetic picture. His mouth quivered as he gave in to tears. Immediately, John Greene went to his brother, holding Elias as they both surrendered to grief.

Richard turned back to his injured Tory friend. He helped Abernathy take a sip of the fiery liquor. The dying man swallowed, coughed, and sipped again. Finally, exhausted, he lay back, his eyes closed.

“Canfield?” Merritt opened his eyes and rose up on his elbows in a surprising show of strength. “Thanks.”

Richard grinned. “At least the bloody rebs didn't get everything.”

Merritt Abernathy started to smile and then groaned and fell back. Blood poured from the man's wound, soaking his breeches, staining the ground. Before their eyes, he lost his life force. Richard watched, feeling helpless. Moments later, Abernathy was dead.

The Continental forces were long gone. Elias now cried out like a wild animal. His eyes feverishly bright, he let his gaze follow each of his men in turn.

“I'll kill the bastards,” he vowed. “I'll kill each and every one of them for this. No bloody reb will escape us—ever gain!”

So it was that Richard saw another man turn mad with the death and destruction brought on by war. And he knew the danger of his position had intensified.

 

 

A month passed and then another. July became August and soon it was autumn. Life in the small village of Hoppertown had gone on peacefully during those remaining July weeks with the Continental Army gone and no sign of British or Tory troops.

With the Van Voorhees' farm ready for sheltering two days after they'd transferred the goods, Kirsten returned to the daily routine of helping her mother in the kitchen and garden, mending clothes, and feeding the farm animals. She'd never had a chance to speak to Washington about his man—the rude guard who'd blocked the road. And the next thing she'd learned was that the Continentals had left.

Kirsten had been busy with the local women from Patriot families, planning for enemy attack and for the safekeeping of the children. The day after the goods from the inn were moved to the Van Voorhees', she had called a meeting of the women to discuss plans in case of an attack. She had explained that there was already a place to flee in the event of a British invasion, and she had asked for linens and other supplies, including soap, ammunition, and onions and apples from their storage cellars.

These women were wives and relatives of the local militiamen. During their meeting, they came up with a system of alerting each family in the event that such an emergency should occur. There was a brief discussion on whether to include any of their Tory relatives. Most felt that since those families had chosen the King's side, they would have to suffer the consequences if their English friends turned against them.

With September came another raid—an attack by Greene and his party. The band left, however, before they could do much damage. Garret Vandervelt's home was torched one night, but the fire was found early and quickly brought under control.

Once a day, early in the morning, the militiamen drilled with their rifles. Other than an occasional attack from a small, ineffective Tory band, it could have been a time of peace.

Harvest time arrived, and the farmers ceased their drilling to bring in the balance of their crops. The Van Atta family began to prepare for the winter months with the beginning of November.

Kirsten and her mother were out in the yard working over a hot fire. That morning James Van Atta had slaughtered a cow and a sheep; and while he butchered the meat which would be cured in the smokehouse, the two women rendered the animal fat for various household uses. They'd built a large fire in the yard early that morning. A large iron kettle hung over the flames, held in place by a specially constructed frame made by Kirsten's father. Kirsten stood near the steaming pot, stirring the mixture of melted beef and mutton tallow. Agnes added chunks of animal fat to the hot cauldron.

“You seem quiet, daughter,” she said, looking at Kirsten with concern.

Kirsten glanced up and wiped an arm across her forehead. Then, for a moment, she stared into the bubbling tallow. “I am fine,
Moeder.”

She gave her mother a slight smile, aware of the picture she presented. Her simple gown of muslin was stained with animal grease. Despite the cool November weather, she was soaked with perspiration due to the steaming heat of the iron pot.

Her mother studied her with a look of concern, and Kirsten had to reassure her parent a second time. Her only problem these days was that she couldn't stop picturing Richard and wondering when he'd return . . .
if
he'd return. She had begun to doubt his sincerity, whether he'd told her the truth the night of Theodosia's party. And her doubts hurt her deeply.

What if he'd been lying to save his skin? Had she let him free only to have him cause countless Patriot deaths?

She turned from the pot. A small table was set up nearby. Kirsten took a cup of water from the table and quenched her thirst. If Richard had deceived her . . . She closed her eyes as she experienced a wave of pain.

If he deceived me,
she thought,
then by God I'll see that he pays!

 

 

 

Richard returned to Hoppertown in the company of Tories. Kirsten was at the tavern at Martin's request, helping her cousin with his stores. Her work at the Van Atta home was done. The candles were made, the meat was smoked. The family was ready for winter. That day the Tory band returned to Hoppertown. There was a great stir among the local patrons as these unwelcome men entered the inn's common room. Elias Greene sat down at a table, and the others followed suit, noisily taking seats wherever it suited them.

Greene slammed his fist on a scarred tabletop and in a loud voice demanded a drink. “Innkeeper! Some ale for a group of poor weary travelers!” The man seated beside him laughed.

The cousins heard the call from the back room. “I'll get it,” Kirsten said. “It's the Ackerman boys most likely,”

She poured three ales and placed the tankards on a tray. She entered the common room, carefully balancing the tray on one arm, as the last of the men sat down. Kirsten froze when she saw who it was. Her heart began to pound, her pulse roared in her ears, for she'd seen him immediately . . . that bright blond head with hair fastened back into a club held by a black velvet ribbon. Richard Maddox.

As if in a trance, Kirsten moved to the first table and set a tankard before Elias Greene. She stepped back quickly. She'd not forgotten her unpleasant encounter with the man. But all the while, she was conscious of eyes on her . . . russet eyes. Richard's.

She went to the next man, placed a mug on the table, and got her arm grabbed as she pulled back. She gasped and tried to free herself. The tray in her other arm wobbled and started to fall.

And then everything happened so quickly she wasn't sure what was occurring. Richard must have jumped from his seat across the table when the tray started to topple, for the next thing she knew he was there, catching it and steadying her, his grip firm on her arm.

Kendall Allen had released her with a muffled curse. One of the pewter tankards had spilled, and ale had washed over to soak his shirt and stain his breeches. The other men in the room laughed, teasing their friend. Allen glared at her.

“Are you all right?” Richard's low husky voice reached her ears through the outburst of merriment.

She turned to him slowly, reluctant to meet his gaze. She was convinced he'd lied to her, and she didn't want to see his face—to find that she still wasn't over her love for him . . . that she would never be over him.