Rapture's Betrayal (23 page)

That explained some of those strained moments, Kirsten realized, when the two families had picnicked together during Kirsten's early childhood. She recalled a time or two when a happy outing had been destroyed by an argument between the two men. Probably over something minor. She didn't remember exactly. In fact, until now, she'd not thought of the angry exchanges at all.

It had grown chilly outside with the coming of the new day, and Kirsten was grateful for the warmth of the fire behind her . . . the crowded room.

Rachel Banta sat across from her. Their gazes met, and Kirsten saw the concern in Rachel's eyes, the fear.

“We'll be all right,” she said.

Rachel nodded, but looked unconvinced.

A guard had been posted near the door, and now another man brushed by him and headed to the fire, his arms loaded with wood. Kirsten saw his face and gasped. Purposely, she turned her head away and silently prayed the man hadn't seen her, that he wouldn't recognize her.

It was the man with the disfigured features. The man who had tried to murder Richard.

The women and children had become silent when he'd entered the room. Whether from the horror of seeing such a terrifying visage or the sense of danger the fellow brought with him, Kirsten didn't know. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid the killer would hear it, that it would draw his attention to her.

Thankfully, her mother had calmed down. Now Agnes was resigned to the fact that her sobs would neither save James nor rescue her from these men. All she could do was wait and pray.

Sensing her mother's fear, Kirsten squeezed Agnes' arm. She herself relaxed slightly in doing so. The strange-looking man had risen after throwing a log onto the fire. As he moved toward the door, Kirsten felt his gaze on her. She bent her head, pretending to check her shoes, trying to be nonchalant about it.

“You!” the man said, and Kirsten gasped and raised her eyes slowly. Had he recognized her in her shirt and breeches? She released her breath in relief when she saw that she was not the object of the disfigured man's attention; it was Anna Terhune, poor girl.

“Come with me,” he ordered.

The room grew loud with the murmurs of protest.

“What do you want her for?” someone asked, daring to be bold. Kirsten recognized Martin's sister.

The man seemed to stare right through Margaretha. “The men are hungry. We will not have to worry about this wench eating our food.” He pointed toward the skinny Anna. Then he cocked his head and regarded Kirsten's cousin thoughtfully. “How about you? Can you prepare food?”

Margaretha shook her head. “My brother does all the cooking,” she lied. “I was a sickly child and never learned. ”

He scowled as if he didn't believe her.

“I can cook!” someone said, and Kirsten was startled to realize that the words had come from her own mother.

“Moeder
—no!”

Agnes rose, her face free of tears, her expression purposeful. “I'm William Randolph's sister. I'll be happy to cook for you.”

There was a buzz of anger from the occupants of the room as the man nodded and Agnes followed him from the parlor. The others turned to stare at Kirsten accusingly.

“I don't know what she's planning,” Kirsten said, feeling her face flush. “She's terrified of her brother, but she's worried about
Vader.
Perhaps she hopes that by cooperating she'll gain the Loyalists' confidence, and she'll be able to see Vader.”

Rachel inclined her head and then spoke to those in the room. “She saved poor Anna here, didn't she? Let us be thankful for Anna's sake. I, for one, believe in Agnes' loyalty. For God's sake, her husband and daughter are here.”

“What if she hopes to free them and not us?” someone asked.

“I'd not leave you behind!” Kirsten said sharply, stung by the remark.

“And if you've no choice?” The comment came from directly beside her, from Sarah Van Voorhees, the woman of the house.

“Then I'll get help from our men and return to free you,” Kirsten said, the look in her eyes daring anyone to argue with her.

 

 

The members of the militia met back at the inn as Richard had requested. Armed with guns and swords and small knives, they were ready to rescue their loved ones.

“These Loyalists have little guns; they're experts in small arms,” Richard told them. “Be prepared to use those knives—anything you can get your hands on. Such weapons could be your only hope.” He paused and studied each man. “Do you know how to use those knives?”

They all murmured that they did.

“Good. Let's go then.”

The men traveled by cart until they were about a half-mile from the Van Voorhees' farm. Then Captain Jonathan Hopper ordered everyone to alight and proceed on foot.

“We can't afford to be discovered, men,” Hopper explained. “As I'm sure you'll agree, we've too much at stake here.” As it was, they had no cover of darkness to shield their approach. The sun had risen in a cloudless sky as if to mock their efforts.

The Van Voorhees' house appeared deserted, but Richard knew better. He told Hopper and his men of Greene's fighting tactics. The Tories, he explained, would be inside, still, playing a game of bait and wait.

Crouched in the bushes at the edge of the woods bordering the Van Voorhees' property, Richard glanced at the man next to him. Jonathan Hopper, a good, able man, looked Richard's way and nodded.

“They're there all right,” Richard mouthed. “I'd stake a month's pay on it.”

A fierce light entered the captain's eyes, and then he rose from his crouch and raised his sword high in the signal to move forward.

Richard gripped his gun hard as he joined the advance. He hoped he wouldn't have to use the rifle, for he was afraid those trapped in the house would get caught in the gunfire. Spying an outbuilding, he ran to it for cover, offering up a silent prayer that the members of the militia had sense enough to keep their heads and stay out of sight. He was afraid that concern for their loved ones would affect their judgment. Richard understood what the men were feeling. Kirsten was inside with the captives. His sweet, spirited Kirsten.

Was she safe? Had she done something to antagonize her captors? He thought of Elias Greene, and a cold shiver of fear coiled in his belly.
Damn! I'll kill the bastard myself if he has so much as touched Kirsten!

The disfigured man's name was Phelps. Kirsten learned that when she heard one of his cohorts call out to him as he entered the parlor for the second time that morning. Her stomach lurched as memories of the man poised over Richard in the flash and fire of the storm came to her. It was all she could do to control a gasp as she recalled the fight, the moment when she'd witnessed the downward thrust of Phelps's bayonet.

She shuddered, reexperiencing the utter helplessness, the horror of watching one man purposely take the life of another. Only Richard didn't die. He might have if not for her, but thank God he'd made it.

Kirsten thought of their captors—her uncle William, Elias Greene, Phelps and the others. They were all cruel men.
God help us,
she thought.
We're at their mercy.

She studied the women in the room with her. Despite their fear, a few had dozed off with children on their laps, too exhausted from the night's ordeal to do otherwise.

Where was
Moeder?
Kirsten wondered. She heard a burst of laughter from the next room, and she cringed, envisioning the reason for such merriment.
Oh, God, please let Moeder be all right and not the object of their sport.

Phelps was moving about the room, staring at each woman. Instinctively, Kirsten moved closer to the person beside her, afraid that he'd spy her. She felt Sarah Van Voorhees press toward her, and the two women leaned against each other, clutching each other's hand.

Kirsten swallowed hard. The disfigured man paused over Anna Terhune, who had fallen asleep, her head propped against another woman's shoulder.

“Wake her up,” Phelps growled at Rachel.

Kirsten wanted to say something, but wisely kept her tongue.

When Rachel Banta hesitated, the man got angry. “I says, wake her up!” He gave her a smirk. “Or are ya offering to take her place?”

Eyes widening with fear, Rachel shook the girl as ordered. Phelps grinned as Anna jolted awake, her face mirroring horror and fear as she realized whose attention she held.

The man reached down and hauled her up by the arm. “Come, wench!” he said. “You come with me.”

Kirsten shifted uneasily as Anna grimaced, no doubt from the bruising grip on her arm and the vile odor of the man's breath.

“No, please,” Anna begged.

“Leave her alone. She's not bothering anyone.” Kirsten started to rise.

As Phelps looked at her Kirsten tensed in fear at having drawn his glance. He squinted his eyes as he studied her. His gaze dropping from her face to her breeches, he murmured in disgust. The air became fraught with tension as Kirsten wondered if she'd just signed her own death warrant.

Phelps had seen her that night. Did he recognize her? She was dressed as she'd been then, like a boy. Would it occur to him that she and the boy in the woods were actually one and the same person? She saw that he had difficulty seeing. Perhaps he didn't recognize her!

“Are you offering to take her place?” He sneered, confirming her last thought. “Such generosity among you rebel women. First the old one offers to cook for her and now you're willing to . . .” With his misshapen mouth, his smile appeared more of grimace. He released Anna and came to Kirsten.

“I'm not offering anything,” Kirsten replied, relieved that he'd made no connection between her and that stormy night. If she got out of this alive, she'd have to remember him, his name. Richard would surely want to know it.

Suddenly, she heard a gunshot. When Phelps turned from her to hurry from the room, Kirsten went to the window, and her heart raced as she caught sight of several members of the Hoppertown militia.

“They're surrounding the house!” she cried. “Our militia is surrounding the house! Rachel, I see Thomas and your father. Mrs. Bogert, your brother is there with your son!”

The women began talking and laughing, their hope renewed, certain now of rescue. In the excitement of the attack, the guards had left their posts for defense points. Kirsten ran to the door, thinking of escape, and found her way blocked by Elias Greene.

“So!” he said. “Just you and me . . . finally.”

Kirsten laughed harshly as she glanced back at the other women. “Hardly, Greene.” Rachel Banta, Anna Terhune, and Sarah Van Voorhees came up to stand behind her in support.

Eyes narrowing, Greene raised his pistol, pointed it at Kirsten's chest. “Move away, ladies, or I'll shoot her here and now.”

“You'll not get out of this alive if you kill me, Greene,” Kirsten said.

They were in the front hall. The outside entrance door burst inward as Thomas Banta shouldered his way inside the house.

“Thomas,” Rachel called to her brother. She pointed toward the Tory leader's gun. “Get Greene!”

A flicker of emotion crossed Thomas' face as he quickly took in the situation. And then he rushed at the man. Greene cursed as Thomas managed to knock the pistol from his grip. The two men fought in deadly earnest.

With the threat of Greene's gun gone, Kirsten looked at the women and children and then assumed command of them. “Rachel—gather the children and their mothers.” She fumbled on the floor for Greene's pistol; she had to back away several times to avoid being struck by the fighting men. Finally, she got a hold of the pistol's handle. “Keep them inside the house and shoot anyone who dares to threaten them,” she said, giving Rachel the gun.

Rachel nodded with confidence. “What will you do?”

Kirsten never had a chance to answer. The husbands and sons of the captives came through the open front entrance, their loud voices filled with joy at the sight of their loved ones, their weapons raised against any enemy who might cross their path.

“Stay inside the room!” one man bellowed. Mrs. Banta nodded and shouted to her husband to be careful.

The militiamen scattered to all parts of the house in search of their Tory enemies. Kirsten heard shots fired but not many. The house was alive with the sounds of battle as militiamen fought hand-to-hand to rescue their beloved families.
The Van Voorhees' house,
Kirsten thought, eyeing the destruction, the spatters of blood that stained the floor and furniture, will
never be the same.

She left the parlor in search of her parents. She found her mother first, in the kitchen. The poor woman had been left bound and gagged on a chair near the hearth. With a horrified cry, Kirsten hurried to untie her.
Such gratitude,
she thought,
for the one who offered to cook for you.

“Your
vader,”
Agnes said after her daughter had removed her gag. “He and George Zabriskie are in the cellar outside. I heard Duntey—”

Kirsten nodded. “You'll be all right?” Her mother was rubbing. her wrists, but she assured her that she would be fine and urged her to find James. Kirsten ran outside to locate the storage cellar.

Unlike at the Van Atta home where the root cellar was beneath the house, the Van Voorhees' stores were kept in a separate cellar built underground. It had a door set into the side of a hill.
“Vader!”
she called, pulling at the iron door lock.

“Kirsten,” came the familiar voice, “daughter, is that you?”

She felt a burst of joy at knowing that he was all right. “Yes,
Vader . . .”

“Open the door, girl.”

“I'm trying,
Vader.”

An explosive noise sounded nearby, a gunshot.

“Good God!” James Van Atta exclaimed, his voice muffled through the heavy wood. “What's happening out there?”

“We're being rescued!”

“Thank God,” he said. “Hurry, Kirsten, so we can help.”

But Kirsten was having no luck; the lock wouldn't budge.

Kirsten froze and slowly turned. William Randolph stood a few yards away, his pistol in hand and his eyes glittering.

“You'll never win,” she said. “I told you.”

Randolph cocked the flintlock. “I'll win over you. I'm going to kill you. At least I'll have that satisfaction.”

“Kirsten!” her father cried from inside the cellar. “Kirsten! What's going on? What's happening out there?”

Her uncle smiled. “And then I'm going to shoot your father . . .”

“No!” The cry came from behind Randolph.

“Miles!” Kirsten gasped, stunned to see her cousin.

“Boy,” Randolph said with a grin at his son, “I'm glad you're here.”

Miles raised his rifle. “No, Father, I won't let you do it.” His lips firmed; his hands were steady.

Randolph seemed taken aback. “This is my affair, son!”

“Don't call me son!” Miles lifted the gun higher. “And it is my affair. She's my cousin.”

“No,” his father said. “Don't you see? She's one of them. A Patriot. A damn rebel! They're ruining this land, boy. They're ruining everything!”

“Drop your pistol, Father.”

“You won't harm me; I'm your father.”

Miles sneered. “Like you wouldn't hurt me because I'm your son?” He shifted his grip on the rifle, grimacing as the fabric of his shirt stretched across the muscles of his back.

Randolph flushed. “I didn't mean to whip you that hard, son. But I had to discipline you—it was for your own good.”

“And Mother?” Miles's face contorted with hate. “You had to discipline her, too?” He heard Kirsten's gasp, but he went on. “For God's sake, she didn't do anything wrong! She loves you.” His voice became hoarse. “. . . Loved you.” He spoke as if his mother had changed her mind.

The barrel of the rifle wavered slightly. “I should kill you now, you bastard, for all you've done to Mother . . . to me.”

“No, boy!” William Randolph was visibly alarmed.

“Kirsten,” Miles said softly, “take his gun.”

The older man's mouth drew into a straight line, and Kirsten hesitated. Her uncle was unstable; she didn't trust him.

“Go ahead, Kirsten. He won't hurt you. He knows I'd kill him first.”

Kirsten edged closer.

“And get the key to the cellar door. It's in his coat pocket.” Miles moved a step nearer. “You see, my dear
father”
—he spoke with loathing—“is the mastermind here.”

Kirsten reached for the gun and gasped as Randolph spun and discharged his pistol. Two shots rang out as both father's and son's guns went off. William Randolph was unhurt, but Miles fell to the ground, wounded. Thomas Banta arrived seconds later. Aghast, his face white, Randolph took one look at his injured son and then stared at Banta a moment before he fled.

“Get him, Tom!” Kirsten cried. “He shot Miles! He shot his own son!” She crouched beside her bleeding cousin.