Rapture's Betrayal (28 page)

But now Phelps was at a loss. Without Randolph, his dream of riches would never be realized. Without the Englishman, Phelps would have no place to go, no fun doing the dirty work. Murdering the Mad Ox hadn't been his first killing for the Tory army. No, that had been a snot-nosed kid, Alexander Brooks.

Randolph—or Biv, the name Randolph later took to hide his identity—had trusted the kid at first, believing Brooks a genuine Loyalist, anxious to see the King get his rightful due. But soon he'd learned otherwise. He'd found out that Alexander Brooks was a Patriot, whose only goal was to infiltrate the Tories and pass on information that would help the revolutionists win a quick victory.

But the kid wasn't smart enough to outwit Biv,
Phelps thought with a smile. Brooks was one rebel who'd never help the Patriot forces again.

It was as he came across a small farmhouse outside of Paramus that Phelps recalled that first meeting with Biv when Brooks was discussed. Phelps had been away on assignment in the Ramapo Mountain region and had returned with a message from a man who was a soldier in Washington's army, a man who offered his services for he was tired and hungry and fed up with the Continental Army. The fellow, an officer by the name of Rhoades, believed that General George Washington was destined to fail, and he wanted to see a quick end to the war.

Phelps's meeting with Randolph had been at a cabin deep in a thicket a mile or so outside of Hackensack. Phelps's squinty eyes lit up as he changed directions. Randolph had no doubt gone there to hide out, to rethink his strategy for the war.

His heart pumped hard. Biv would rebuild the army, and they'd be back in business again. As long as William Randolph, alias Biv, was alive, so was Phelps's hope for wealth. Randolph had promised him land, several hundred acres of it. Phelps had no idea where this land was, but he trusted Biv and knew the man would keep his promise as long as Phelps remained loyal. And loyal he would be; no one had given the disfigured man much attention or respect before Biv. Biv appreciated him for his special “skills.”

His misshapen mouth contorted in a half-grin, Phelps headed toward Hackensack and the small cabin of his leader.

 

 

The Patriot Dutch in Hoppertown were astonished. Someone had forced his way into a man's home. A fellow Patriot was dead.

Kirsten listened to her father's story of Dwight Van Graaf's murder. Her horror grew as she heard all the details. Pulled from his bed in the middle of the night, Dwight Van Graaf had been shot in the head and left to bleed to death on his parlor floor. His wife, having heard the shot, found him, but it was too late. Captain Jonathan Hopper of the Hoppertown militia advised all residents to arm themselves and be on watch. It was believed that Tories were responsible for Van Graaf's senseless death.

That night, when she went to bed, Kirsten lay in her alcove with a flintlock at her side. Anyone who came to the Van Atta farm would be in for a surprise, for James and Agnes were armed, too.

“Andrew?” Richard was addressing the young soldier who accompanied him. In the end, only one of Washington's men could be spared, a new recruit who couldn't have been involved in Alexander's death.

“Sir?”

“What's that you see ahead?”

“It looks like a cabin, sir.”

Richard narrowed his gaze to peer through the darkness. “And someone lurking about, it would seem.”

“What shall we do, sir?”

“Advance, private, and meet this person face-to-face.” His hand on the hilt of his sword, he rose from his crouch and moved stealthily through the woods toward the small structure in the forest thicket. He waved a hand for the soldier to follow him.

It had been purely by chance that they'd stumbled upon the cabin. Had they passed a few feet farther away, they would surely have missed seeing it.
There could be only one reason such a hideout exists,
Richard thought.
Smugglers.

Whoever was outside didn't want to be seen. He kept against the side of the building, his head bent low, as he moved from the door and skirted the cabin's left side.

Richard froze, his hand halting the private behind him. The man was heading in their direction.

 

 

Catherine was frightened, but it didn't stop her from dressing in her husband's clothes and leaving the tiny cabin in the woods. She'd stayed longer than she'd expected. William and Greene had been gone for some time. Fear of their return had prompted her to move quickly, to rummage recklessly through her husband's belongings, which he'd recently retrieved from their house.

The night was pitch black. She had difficulty adjusting her eyesight to the darkness, for William had left a candle burning on the table. While the light had helped her to dress hastily, it hampered her progress into the darkened forest.

She took nothing with her, leaving behind the homespun gown she'd come in, and the few personal belongings William had thrust at her after his trip back to their house. She cared not how she looked; her only thought was to escape the man she'd married, the man who had murdered her only son.

Catherine slipped from the cabin and kept her back against the wall before she stooped low to skirt the building. William and his man Greene had headed straight away from the hut's entrance. She intended to go the opposite way to increase her chances for a successful escape.

Her destination was the Van Attas' farm. Her sister-in-law would tell her what to do. And Agnes' husband would welcome what little information she'd managed to obtain from the men who'd held her prisoner these past days.

Unsure of her location, Catherine had decided earlier to continue through the woods until she reached a road. Perhaps then she'd recognize where she was. If not, she'd follow the road until she came to a village or town—or someone who might direct her on the right path to Hoppertown. She knew she might encounter friend or foe. Her only hope was that God remained with her on her journey, directing her steps. She carried a small weapon for defense, a kitchen knife she'd unearthed from the cooking utensils William had so thoughtfully provided for her use.

There was no one about as she crept around the outside of the cabin. She could hear her heart thundering within her breast as she left the side of the structure for the woods.

It was cold. Catherine drew the edges of William's coat about herself and, with head down, moved through the tall dried grass, past thorn bushes which snagged the fabric of her breeches. With a soft exclamation, she paused to free herself before she continued on her perilous journey.

She heard the rustling through the trees and knew it was the wind, but it terrified her. In her mind she pictured wild creatures she might meet. She wasn't afraid of raccoon or deer; and certainly the rabbits, squirrels, and other small animals wouldn't harm her. But there were bears in these New Jersey forests, big monstrous brutes that could rip the flesh from a human being.

“Stop! Or I'll shoot,” someone commanded.

Catherine froze, her terror blinding her. The male voice came from ahead, but she couldn't make out anyone. She heard the crunch of footsteps against dry twigs as the man approached her.

There were two of them, she saw. She inhaled a few calming breaths, her hand going to the waist of her breeches where she kept the knife.

“Don't move, fellow, or we'll kill you now!”

Her hand fell to her side. Catherine realized then that they thought her a man. Good,
perhaps I can use that against them.

One man came forward before the other. She saw instantly that he was tall and had light hair. In the darkness, those were the only two things she could tell about him.

“Who are you?” Richard approached, his watchful gaze on the stranger's arms. He was leery of any sudden moves the fellow might make. The man didn't answer. “Private? Come ahead. Check him for weapons.”

The stranger gasped. “No!”

Both men drew to a halt. The voice was most definitely a female's.

“Lady?” Richard asked.

“Don't—stay away!”

“We'll not hurt y—”

“I said, no!” Her hand moved like lightning, pulling out the knife, holding it before her to keep the private at bay.

“What is your name?”

“Are you for the King?” she asked.

Richard was silent. “Is a King's man a better man?”

“Damn the King and all that follow him!” she said.

“We are Patriots!” the private said. “Soldiers in General Washington's army.”

Richard was smiling at the lady's last reply.

The knife wavered within her grasp. “Patriots?”

“Aye, mistress. I'm Private Andrew Jones. This is Richard Maddox. Lieutenant Richard Maddox.”

Richard started. It was the first time he'd been referred to by rank. “You are obviously for the cause, dear woman. For what purpose have you come here?”

Catherine lowered the knife. “I am escaping. And if you are at all gentlemen, you will tell me where I am so that I may return to Hoppertown, my home.”

Richard's muscles tensed. “You are from Hoppertown?”

“I am. I have lived for many years there. My husband and I.” She grew silent. “I have a husband no longer.”

“I'm sorry, lady,” the private said.

She drew herself erect. “Don't be. He's not dead to the world, only to me.” Her voice became a whisper. “He murdered our son.”

Richard stepped forward then, aware of the implication of the woman's comments. “You are Catherine Randolph. Miles's mother.” He approached enough to see her face. Her eyes were wide with fear, but they held determination, too. She wore a man's clothes for protection. The sight of her dressed thus gently reminded Richard of Kirsten. Catherine Randolph's hair was covered with a dark, knit cap.

As she saw him, the woman gasped with surprised recognition. “You are—”

“I'm not what you thought,” he said, referring to the time when he'd stayed at her farm as one of Greene's men. “I'm a Patriot, true enough.”

Her expression had become wary. “You were with—”

“I work for General Washington,” Richard interrupted. “Some call me the Mad Ox.”

“I see.” She looked disbelieving.

“'Tis true, mistress,” Andrew Jones said. “He is what he claims.”

“I promise that the Van Attas—your niece—will vouch for me,” Richard said.

“My niece . . .” Her gaze narrowed. “What is her name?”

“Kirsten.”

She seemed to relax then. Apparently, she believed him. “Will you take me to Hoppertown?” Catherine glanced about as if expecting, fearing, to see her husband. “Please say yes, for my time runs out. They—John Greene and William—will return soon.”

Richard grinned, his teeth a white slash in the dark night. “We will be most happy to escort you, Mrs. Randolph, for we are on our way to Hoppertown.”

 

 

When Phelps arrived at the cabin, it was empty, but he saw signs that someone had been staying there recently. Guessing that Randolph would be back, he moved in and made himself comfortable.

 

 

It was in the early morning hours that Kirsten woke to the sound of gunfire. She sat up in bed, her heart pounding. There had been numerous raids of late on the Hoppertown residents. The Tories were striking without warning, without care for the women and children in the homes they'd targeted for attack.

“Kirsten!” Her mother burst into the bedchamber. “Come quickly! Grab your rifle and stay away from the windows. We're being shot at!”

“Moeder!
Who is it? Tories?”

Agnes confessed that she didn't know as she hustled her daughter from the room.

James Van Atta was already downstairs at the parlor window, armed, his pistol raised.

“Vader?”
Kirsten came up behind him, the flintlock in hand.

“Stay back, daughter,” he ordered.

“But I can shoot as well as any man.” She met his gaze steadily, without fear.

He nodded. “The other window then. But don't shoot until I say to.”

Kirsten obeyed her father, moving to the second window, lifting her gun. She stared down the barrel toward the front yard. There was no movement, no sign of life.

A second blast of gunfire. Suddenly, out of the forest ran three people, ducking low to avoid being hit from behind.

“Why, they're seeking shelter!” James said.

“Shall I open for them?” Agnes hurried to the door.

Kirsten rose up, excited. “
Vader
—please! Before one of them gets shot!”

Agnes opened the door a crack. A few yards away, one stranger tripped, and the other two lifted him up by the arms. Kirsten's mother swung open the portal.

“Agnes!” a feminine voice said.

Agnes jerked back in surprise. “Catherine?” She shot her husband a glance. “My word, James, it's Catherine. ”

“Aunt Catherine?” Kirsten gasped. She stood behind her mother at the door. “Who's that with her?”

The three rose up and hurried toward the open door. The gunfire was less frequent now; there was no sign of the snipers.

Agnes moved back as Catherine bolted toward the house, followed by the others, giving Kirsten a better view of the three seeking refuge.

She caught sight of a tawny mane, the familiar way one man moved. She froze. “Richard?” she whispered

Richard looked up then, and their gazes met briefly before he traversed the remaining feet into the house. When everyone was safe, he closed the door. Only then did he turn back to Kirsten.

“Hello, love,” he said to her, and Kirsten rejoiced to see him again.

“Richard, it's you! I can scarcely believe my eyes. Where did you come from?” She set her rifle against the wall.

“From Washington's camp. We were on our way back when we came across your aunt.”

She gazed at her Aunt Catherine. “Are you all right?”

The woman smiled, but her eyes were dull. “Lieutenant Maddox and Private Jones brought me.”

“How?” Kirsten sputtered. “Where did you meet?”

A gun went off in the distance, and Richard frowned, joined James at the window. “I believe they're leaving, sir.”

James Van Atta, startled by the recent turn of events, nodded without a word.

“Richard?” Kirsten was still waiting to hear how both her aunt and Richard had come to be here in her own home.

“William is mad,” Catherine said, drawing everyone's glance. “He's kept me a prisoner these past days . . . in a cabin in the woods.” The Van Attas nodded sympathetically.

“That's where we found her,” Jones said. “Outside of Hackensack, where we had to stop to confer with the captain of the militia there.”

Catherine turned toward her brother-in-law. “I have learned something of William's plans. He meets with others now. I don't know whom. But he has a connection somewhere. I think he's building an army.”

James nodded. “He already has, if my guess is right. There have been raids on Hoppertown these past three nights. Perhaps William is involved.”

His sister-in-law agreed. “We must talk later,” she said, addressing the men.

Catherine then touched her niece's arm. “Kirsten, tell me what happened. Tell me about Miles.”

Kirsten, knowing that the truth would only cause her aunt more pain, hesitated.

“I know,” Catherine said. Her lined features hardened. “I know William killed my boy.”

“Aunt Catherine—I'm so sorry.”

“William, these past few years, hasn't been . . . right,” she said. “I should have left him.”

Kirsten's eyes stung. “It's not your fault.”

Tears filled Catherine's eyes when Agnes came to her and put an arm about her trembling shoulders. “I'm sorry,” Agnes whispered.

Catherine met her gaze. “Don't you blame yourself, Agnes dear. There was nothing you could have done. It was William. William did it. He alone is responsible for his misdeeds. He alone must pay.”