Rapture's Betrayal (27 page)

“Had to,” the man said with a scowl in his wife's direction. “She knows too much. Besides, she can cook and clean for us while we're here.”

“Yes, but . . .”

The woman was stone-faced, unwilling to glance at her husband. Her eyes were glazed.

John stepped aside, allowing the two to enter. A h,
so that's the way of it!
he thought. There was friction between the Randolphs. Little love, too, he decided. The woman would be no trouble. The young Greene smiled.

 

 

Catherine was silent as she entered the tiny cabin, but inside her thoughts churned. She would escape them, as soon as their backs were turned. They would have to leave sometime. William was planning something.
What?
She would find out first and then pass on the information to the Patriots.

But such hate bubbled up within her she could barely see.

 

 

Funerals were a time of sadness, but for the Dutch, they were also a time to socialize. Everyone in the community came together to share in the sorrow and then enjoy one another's company. They were day-long affairs, beginning before noon and ending at sundown. Kirsten wanted only the best day of remembrance for her beloved cousin. She did all she could to ensure that it would be special.

The funeral was held at the Van Atta home. With the Randolphs' disappearance, there was no one else to take care of the proceedings. Being close to Miles, Kirsten was more than willing to bear the brunt of the work.

As she and her mother set up the
dodekamer,
the room where Miles was to be laid out, Kirsten thought of Aunt Catherine. Did her aunt know of Miles's death? What story had her uncle concocted to convince Catherine to leave Hoppertown with him? To explain Miles's absence?

Aunt Catherine should be here,
Kirsten thought. Alone, she would be accepted, Tory husband or not, for she was a good woman and everyone loved her.

Kirsten and her mother had worked hard the evening before, stitching the
dodekleed
or black funeral cloth to cover Miles's casket. James Van Atta himself had insisted on building Miles's coffin; and he was doing a fine job of it, sanding and polishing the wood to a smooth sheen. He had loved Miles, despite the boy's sire.

Friends—the Bogerts—had offered to make the
dodekoeks
, the cakes that would be served after the funeral service to all those who'd come to the gathering. Gratefully, Kirsten had agreed that Mrs. Bogert and her daughter would make the cakes, and she thanked them for their generous offering.

“In den Heere ontslapen
. . .” Sleeping in the Lord.

Kirsten's eyes filled with tears as the
voorlezer
spoke Miles's eulogy. Every Patriot family had come. The Bantas and Bogerts. The Zabriskies, Van Voorheeses, and Ackermans. Even Frederick Terhune with his crooked powdered wig and his skinny daughter. And Dwight Van Graaf and his wife and son. Kirsten frowned. She didn't recall Van Graaf among the militia men who attacked the Tories or rescued them at the Van Voorhees' farm. The thought came and went quickly as the
voorlezer
continued with the service.

“Miles Randolph was a good boy,” the man said with feeling. “He had no liking for this war we fight, yet he was an innocent victim. God has chosen to take him, so we must acknowledge that God in His infinite wisdom knows what is best for Miles . . . for us all . . .”

The speech seemed to go on forever. Kirsten felt more ill with each passing moment as the reality of what this day meant sank home. She gasped a sob. Through the hours of preparation, she'd been too busy working to think much, to grieve. She'd wanted things to be perfect for Miles; and while her thoughts had often strayed to Miles's mother, she'd kept her emotions at bay.

The ceremony ended. Some of the guests filtered out of the
dodekamer
for the kitchen, while others remained behind. The
dodekamer
was actually the Van Attas' parlor—the largest room, but for the kitchen on the first floor of the house. The low murmur of conversation filled both rooms as friends reminisced about the young man.

With the funeral service over, Kirsten wanted nothing more than for the day to end. She wanted to be alone, to mourn for Miles in private. She thought of Richard and longed for the warm, strong haven of his arms . . . his deep, husky voice soothing away her tears . . . his hard muscular body that was healthy and alive.

Where was he? Was he safe? Had he met up with General Washington?

She was concerned. With her uncle's escape, the danger to Richard was greater. Kirsten prayed that soon William Randolph would be found—and brought to justice for killing his own son.

Kirsten smiled, putting forth her best face as guests stayed to enjoy the treats and other food prepared by neighbors and friends and the Van Atta women. Finally, hours later, the day ended. As she helped her mother clean up the last traces of the event, she saw the strain on Agnes' face. She realized that for her mother, too, the day had been an ordeal.

“Moeder,”
she said gently, reaching out to take the broom from Agnes' hands. “Go up to bed. I'll finish up here.” Never again would Kirsten regard a funeral day in the same light. As a child, it had always seemed a happy time, a time for socializing, but with Miles's death, the pain of such an occasion had become too real.

Agnes looked at her with relief. “Thank you. I am a bit tired.”

Kirsten gave her a slight smile. “Where's
Vader?”
she asked.

“Outside with the animals. He'll be in soon.”

The younger woman flushed guiltily. “The animals! I'm so sorry! I forgot.”

Agnes placed a hand on Kirsten's arm. “You have worked hard enough this day, daughter.” Her gaze was warm. “It is all right.”

With tears in her eyes, Kirsten nodded. She'd worked hard for Miles. Miles was dead.

“Halt! Who goes there?” The young soldier stood firm, gripping his flintlock.

Richard stepped out from behind a tree. He was at Washington's camp, and it was late at night. He was anxious to speak with the general and be on his way back to Hoppertown. Unless Washington had other plans for him. He hoped not.

Surprised to be discovered by one so inexperienced, he regarded the guard warily, then slowly moved forward. It wouldn't do to frighten the youth and have him fire.

“I'm a friend,” he said, his gaze holding the young man's.

The soldier raised his gun to train it on Richard's middle. “Who are you, sir? And why do you travel alone?”

“I am no enemy. I work for your general. Call him and he will tell you.”

The young guard looked skeptical, and Richard could guess his thoughts.
Disturb the commander in chief?

“Suppose you are lying? What if you are a threat to General Washington?” The sentry glanced about with caution. “You've brought others with you . . .”

“No!” Seeing the man tense, Richard raised his arms as he stepped forward. “See? I come without rifle. My only weapons are this sword at my belt and a knife in my boot. Come check for yourself.”

“This is a trick.”

“It is no trick. I am serious. My name is Maddox. Richard Maddox.”

The soldier seemed surprised. “The Mad Ox?” His gun wavered some from its target.

Richard nodded, frowning. “You've heard of me?”

“What is it, Private?” a man asked. From the tone of his voice, he was a person of authority.

“This man—this intruder—says he is the ‘Mad Ox,' sir.”

“Oh, does he now?”

Richard couldn't see the newcomer, for he stood in the shadow of a large cypress tree. But he recognized the voice. It was Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton, Washington's aide.

Hamilton stepped into Richard's line of vision. He stared at Richard for a long moment. Richard felt his breath slam within his chest as he wondered whether Hamilton would deny knowing him to protect the identity of the Mad Ox.

Hamilton's face cleared. “Richard!”

Richard released a sigh of relief. “Alexander.” He came forward and shook Hamilton's hand. He sensed the young guard's astonishment and was pleased.

“You have come here openly—has something happened? Have you news?”

Richard nodded. “Is he awake?”

Hamilton smiled. “Does the man ever sleep?”

They found the general in his tent, bent over his lap desk, writing letters. The brown head rose at the swish of the tent flap. “Hamilton,” he said with a frown. His brow cleared. “Richard!”

“General, sir.” Richard had taken off his hat as he entered the tent. He came forward and extended his hand. Washington accepted the handshake and then invited Richard to sit on his sleeping cot.

Tired, Richard gratefully accepted the general's offer. Alexander Hamilton remained inside the tent, standing.

“Now tell me, Richard, why have you come?”

Richard addressed both men. “I've been to Paramus and the village of Hoppertown. You'll recall that I've been traveling with the Tory—Elias Greene?”

Washington inclined his head.

“He's been smuggling goods to the Britons in the city of New York.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that, of course.” The general placed his lap desk on the ground beside his chair. “You have news of this man . . . Biv, is it?”

“No, but I know of a man who can lead me to him. There's someone in Hoppertown—a disfigured man. He's the one who tried to murder me the night I was to meet Biv. He claimed he'd been sent by Biv.” Richard gauged Washington's reaction, and then continued. “There's another fellow, William Randolph. I don't know why, but I have a hunch that he is deeply involved in this. I believe that he, too, knows who this Biv is.”

“And you have found this man—Randolph? You know where he is?”

Richard shook his blond head. “Not at present, but I don't think he's left Hoppertown. And he's not someone you can just question. Far from an approachable fellow. An avid Loyalist. One vicious enough to betray his own mother.”

“There must be some reason for you to feel he's involved.”

“He's behind the smuggling ring taking goods to the Britons in New York. I had originally thought Greene was in charge and Randolph was merely helping, but it seems that William Randolph was the leader all along.” He shifted positions and rubbed his thigh, which sometimes pained him when the weather changed. There was a dampness in the air. It was going to rain.

“Greene is dead, and Randolph's missing,” Richard said. “The whole lot of them held some local Patriots hostage for a time until the Hoppertown militia rescued them. Randolph escaped the fighting, unharmed. Some of the women captives spoke of a horrible-looking man. I assume he's the one who tried to murder me. Unfortunately, when all was done, he couldn't be found. So he, too, must have gotten away.”

Richard frowned with concern as he cradled his hat. “The fact that I can no longer keep an eye on Randolph worries me.” He had a mental image of Miles lying on the ground, blood soaking his shirtfront, Kirsten crying over his dead body. “The man's a fanatic. I don't believe we've seen the last of his deeds—not by a long shot. He cares about little but to further his own ends.”

“You actually believe this one man is a direct threat to us?” Hamilton said. “What makes him so terribly different from all the other fanatic Loyalists?”

“The man is the devil himself.” Richard swallowed against the lump in his throat. “He killed his own son.”

Washington and Hamilton agreed that such a man was dangerous.

“Perhaps you should go back to this Hoppertown,” Hamilton suggested. “Find this Randolph. If his home is there, he is bound to return.”

Richard nodded. He further explained the attack on the Tory camp by the local militia, how he was considered a traitor by Randolph. “When the Patriots attacked, I couldn't fight them. I had to choose sides. Greene and the others saw me help those of the militia who were in trouble. Randolph wasn't there at first, but he appeared on the scene before Greene's death, and Greene quickly made it known that I wasn't the Loyalist I'd pretended to be.”

“Go back then.” Washington said. “Go back to Hoppertown. If there is a man in my command who's a traitor, I want him exposed. If this Biv, or if William Randolph, knows who he is, I would learn his identity.” He rose from his chair. “Do you need men?”

Richard gave the matter some thought. “Two perhaps, if you can spare them.”

The general assured him that he could. “We will be coming that way soon. Obviously, you believe something big is going to happen there, which is why you are here.”

“Yes,” Richard said. “The area, as you know, is prosperous. Winter is nearly upon us, and with the rich food stores there, the enemy will come. The smugglers will start up again.”

Hamilton paced about the tent. “But only Randolph remains of the smugglers.”

“There are others of the group I can't account for.” Richard told of the takeover of the Van Voorhees' farm. “Greene has a brother John. I didn't see him during the fighting. I couldn't find him afterward.”

Washington removed his coat. “Greene and Randolph then. They would be dangerous together?”

“Deadly,” Richard said.

 

 

The men left the cabin at night. They thought her asleep, but she was only pretending to be. Catherine waited a few moments and then hurried to the tiny window that faced the cabin's front. William and Greene were disappearing into the forest. Where were they going? she wondered. Her pulse raced. It was the first time they had left her alone.

For three days, she'd been locked up inside the one-room dwelling with no hope of escape. Three days and she still didn't know the plans of her husband and Greene.

Catherine didn't weep openly for Miles, although she longed to do so. She kept her mourning private. She wouldn't break down before her husband. The man had killed his own son—
her
son. She wouldn't give William the satisfaction of knowing that he was hurting her, that her feelings for him had changed. For how else was she going to learn what he was up to? How else would she get him to forget her presence and discuss his secrets with Greene?

She wasn't allowed outside alone. Everywhere she went—each time she had to relieve herself—someone went with her, either Greene or her husband. Mostly Greene. And for that humiliation alone, she'd never forgive William. Not that she would have forgiven him anyway. William Randolph was a murderer of innocent children.

Catherine thought hard. If she were to escape this prison, it would have to be at night. The black forest terrified her, but she wouldn't let that stop her. No, she had to get to Kirsten, find out the truth, and learn where they'd buried Miles.

Tears filled her eyes, blinding her. She turned from the window and felt her way back to her cot. She would wait two days, but no more. If she couldn't learn what William was up to in that time, then she would leave without knowing. Each moment spent in her husband's company increased her desire to see him pay for his crimes. If indeed he had killed Miles.

And he must have. Kirsten certainly wasn't capable of hurting him as William had claimed.

 

 

“Van Graaf!” William Randolph called as his fist struck the Dutchman's door. “Van Graaf! Open up!”

Dwight Van Graaf heard the commotion from upstairs and hurried down. “William!” he exclaimed upon opening the door. He looked faintly alarmed as he glanced about quickly. “Come in, come in,” he invited when it appeared that no one was outside to see the two of them meet.

Dwight Van Graaf had been a spy for Randolph. Pretending to be a Patriot, he'd supplied Randolph with information regarding the rebels' plans.

“Are we alone?” Randolph asked as he slipped inside the house.

“At this hour?” Van Graaf shook his head. “My wife's upstairs sleeping. Fortunately, she is a deep sleeper. I could hear your call, yet she wasn't disturbed.”

Randolph regarded his spy carefully. “You don't seem happy to see me, Dwight.”

The man seemed flustered. “I didn't know you lived.”

The Englishman gave him a cruel smile. “Well, I am alive, as you can see for yourself. No thanks to you, I'm beginning to suspect! Where were you? We could have used more men!”

“But I thought—”

“I don't care what you thought! You should have come. You knew what Greene's plans were. You should have come to help us.”

Van Graaf shook his head. “And ruin my cover? How could I continue to supply you with information if the rebs were to learn that I was one of you?”

Randolph stared. “Well, I suppose this is true. All in all, I guess it worked out for the best, because now there's only Greene and I. John Greene. With your help, we can rebuild our army.”

The Dutchman felt alarmed. To pass on information was one thing; to be caught by the Patriots doing more was something else. Besides, he'd been paid for the information; he wasn't foolish enough to get into a situation in which he couldn't turn a profit.

“I'm sorry, William. I wish I could help, but I don't see how.”

Something about Van Graaf's manner disturbed William Randolph. He recalled the raid on Greene's camp. How had the militia learned of the camp's location? Had someone tipped them off? Van Graaf?

“I believe you can assist. Are you willing?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Van Graaf hedged. “My wife—”

“You bastard! It was you that told them, wasn't it? You've been playing both sides. You told the rebs about Greene's camp! What else did you tell them?”

“I told them nothing!”

“Liar!” William went to the door and whistled softly into the night. Instantly, John Greene appeared and joined him inside the Van Graaf house. Greene's gaze was questioning. “Shoot him!” William said.

And without a thought Greene lifted his pistol and fired at the horrified Dutchman.

Having escaped the skirmish at the Van Voorhees' farm, Phelps wandered aimlessly about the area for days, pondering his options now that he was the only one left from the Tory army. He'd gone to William Randolph's place immediately after the militia's attack, hoping to find the man and follow his lead. It was Randolph who'd got Phelps involved in the band in the first place. They'd met in a tavern in Hackensack, where Randolph had been looking for men loyal to the English king. Phelps, while he'd given little thought to which side of the war he was on, had caught Randolph's public speech in the common room and been struck by the intelligence of the man—and most by the promise of a rich reward. Never one to pass up the offer of wealth, Thaddeus Phelps had confronted Randolph as the man was leaving the Stone Lion Inn and the two had hooked up to work together for Britain's King George.