The Prize (68 page)

Hundreds of British
soldiers, including some cavalry, were rushing down the street, muskets
blasting, sabers raised. The militia who were charging to meet them formed a
pathetic resistance, a mere handful of men. Aghast, Vir-

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ginia could not move,
watching the massacre taking place before her very eyes. One by one, every
single American militiaman was slain in the matter of a moment. Virginia had
never seen so much blood and death. She gagged, clutching her belly, vaguely
aware of the tears streaming down her face.

Devlin was a part
of this.

Virginia turned and
retched.

Tillie held her,
whispering urgently, "We need to go! There's more on the way!"

Virginia's heart
pounded with sickening force. She turned and fled back the way they had come,
her arm in Tillie's, and when they turned the corner they paused, facing each
other in real fear. Virginia wondered if her eyes were as wide and horrified as
Tillie's. "They must have planned a second assault from the rear—they must
have landed other troops farther up the inlet," Virginia whispered,
trembling.

"How do we get
out of here? We cannot leave Frank," Tillie cried.

Virginia did not know
how they were going to get out of the town. "Come," she whispered.
They could hardly stay where they were, so close to that terrible battle, and
as they ran down the block, a building behind them exploded, then burst into
flames. They turned onto another street and then leapt back against a brick
house. A hundred British troops were fighting some dozen militiamen with
muskets blazing and swords clanging. Within moments, not a militiaman was left
standing and a river of blood ran through the street.

Virginia choked on
bile.

Tillie was sobbing,
but soundlessly.

The redcoats hadn't
seen them as they stood huddled in a doorway, the mounted officers ordering the
infantry to regroup. Their predicament had become crystal clear.

The town was overran.
Hampton would fall. It would be a massacre. How in God's name would they
escape? Could they even survive?

"Virginia,"
Tillie said tersely, poking her with an elbow.

Virginia followed her
gaze and froze in abject horror at the sight of a mounted officer wearing the
blue coat of the British navy.

"Over
there," a British army officer shouted.

Virginia jerked and
saw a man stepping out of his stable. She knew him well—it was the Hampton
blacksmith, John Ames, holding his hunting rifle. As he lifted it, a dozen muskets
blasted and he fell.

A woman screamed. She
came running out of the stable, screaming still, and Virginia shouted,
"No, Martha!" to his wife, but it was too late. Martha flung herself
down on her husband's body as Virginia saw a marine aim his musket at her. The
British soldier fired and hit the woman, clearly killing her. Virginia could
not move, stunned.

Tillie had taken
Virginia's hand. "They're murdering innocent people," she said
hoarsely. "We've got to go."

Virginia turned, her
heart lurching with dread, seeking out the naval officer in blue. Instantly she
found him. She cried out.

"What is
it?"

It was Thomas Hughes.

She stared at him
across the street, a battlefield of the wounded and the dead, and a chill went
down her spine.

What was he doing
there? As far as she knew, his career had been spent in the offices of the
Admiralty in London. But she could not think about him now.

Because Tillie was
dragging her away and shouting at her to run. Virginia realized that they had
been seen—and a dozen marines had turned their way.

As they started
firing, she and Tillie ran.

* * *

"Jesus
Christ," Devlin cried, sitting astride the horse he had summarily taken
from a civilian.

The town was an
inferno. The dead and the dying littered the streets, both militia and
civilians, women and children. The attacking forces had been two thousand
strong, to ensure a decisive and swift victory after the humiliation of
Norfolk. Devlin had seen soldiers go berserk and burn, rape, loot and murder
before, but he had not expected to see the terrible plunder he was now witnessing.
Word had quickly reached him aboard the
Defiance
that the British
marines were out of hand—mostly fueled on by the French who fought with them,
prisoners of war who had enlisted to avoid their confinement. Yet he doubted
all the blame lay with the Frenchmen in their ranks—he suspected Cockburn had
encouraged the carnage, damn his black soul to the fires of hell.

Even now, a group of
marines, mostly inebriated, were destroying a shop, the nearby buildings
entirely in flames, a dead woman and child in the middle of the street.

"Lieutenant,"
he shouted in fury to one of the British officers.

The officer rode up
to him. "Yes, sir?"

"Stop those men
and arrest them all," he ordered. And he was thinking of his wife.

"But, sir!"
The young officer was wide-eyed.

"Shoot them if
you have to!" he said grimly. "All troops are to return to their
respective commands. Our work is done here. We have clearly won." Inside,
he was sick, a sickness that reached his soul.

But he shoved it
aside. The battle might be over, but there remained much work to be done. He
spurred his mount into a canter, determined to inspect the town. But inspection
was a real impossibility. British troops ran amok everywhere. As he turned the
corner he discovered two more of his troops in

the act of raping a
woman, surrounded by a dozen cheering men. Seized with fury, Devlin did not
pause. He unsheathed his sword and charged the men. Instantly several turned
and fled, the others backing away. The woman scrambled to her feet and ran.

"Stand at attention,"
he snapped, the urge to strike them all down wild and huge. They stared at him
with wide, fearful eyes. "There is to be no more plunder, no rape, no
looting- Report to your respective commands."

The men stood down.
"Aye, sir," one said, his eyes popping.

He spurred his mount
on, thinking of Virginia again. This was her home—the town was close enough to
Sweet Briar that she must frequent it often—and he hated what he and the
British had done. At least she was spared the sight of this, he thought grimly,
and he thanked God for that.

But it did not seem
as if the town could be saved. Half of it would be ashes by nightfall, and he
was afraid to count the American dead. Not for the first time, he was silently
grateful that Virginia was safe and sound at Sweet Briar.

As always, regret and
grief warred in his chest.

Dusk began. The
battle was over except for a few isolated incidents; most of the troops had
been brought back under control. Devlin dismounted to inspect one scene, where
dozens of militia and civilians lay dead or dying in the street, the British
medics already present and tending to their own. "What is the tally so
far?" he asked, weary beyond words.

"Our losses are
few, sir," a young doctor said. He was covered in soot and blood, as was
Devlin, though he hadn't realized it until that moment. "But I'm afraid
the Americans have suffered in the hundreds."

"How many
hundreds?" he asked, a movement catching his eye. There would be hell to
pay for this day.

"Three, four,
five, it's impossible to say just now."

Devlin narrowed his
eyes. He knew that man lurking across the street, did he not? And then Devlin
recognized the slave, having seen him once before, at night, hiding in the
front hall at Sweet Briar. He strode across the bloody street, avoiding
tramping upon the bodies there. "You, man, wait!"

The black man turned
and began to run.

"Damn it, halt!
Halt before I fire," he roared, the threat an idle one.

The man froze, hands
lifting in the air.

Devlin hurried to
him. "Turn around. I will not hurt you," he said. The man obeyed.
"You're from Sweet Briar."

He nodded, eyes wide
with both fear and recognition. "An' you be Miz Virginia's husband. The
captain," he said.

He now nodded, a
sudden, terrible inkling beginning. "She is safe, is she not? She did obey
me when I told her to stay at the plantation?"

The man's eyes filled
with tears. "No, sir!" he cried. "She done come to town to see a
doctor, as she's been poorly for some time now, and then the fighting began and
I don't know where she is!"

Devlin's world tilted
wildly. And for the first time in his life he knew horror.

"She is
here?" he shouted. "My wife is here, in this town, now, today?"
he cried.

The man nodded.

"Where?" he
gasped, seized with a fear he had never before experienced. Had she been
wounded? Raped? Was she even alive? How could she have survived this terrible
battle? "Where did you last see her?" He realized he was shaking the
man.

"I'll show you,
sir," the man cried.

Together they ran
through the burning town. It seemed to take hours to arrive at a shop that had
its display window broken, the entire interior looted, but Devlin knew it had
taken

                             
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mere minutes. "I
left 'em here to shop for a bit, before goin' to the doctor," Frank said
on a sob.

Devlin went cold
inside, and slowly, his hand on his sword, he looked around.

Dead littered the
streets. A few shops and homes burned. Dusk was deepening. There were stars
tonight, stars and the beginning of a full moon. He felt helpless then.

If she's dead I
will die,
he
thought.
And I will kill whoever was responsible.

But he was
responsible, wasn't he?

For if it weren't for
his damned obsession with the Earl of Eastleigh and his refusal to put revenge
aside, she would be safely at Waverly Hall, not here in this hellhole of blood
and death.

"Help me find
her," he said.

"I think it's
safe to go," Virginia said hoarsely. They had spent the entire day hiding
in the attic of someone's home. From a tiny window there, they had seen death,
destruction, murder and rape. They had seen vicious brutality, unspeakable
carnage and mass mayhem. They had seen so much blood and it flecked and stained
their faces, hands and clothes. Once, troops had entered and searched the
house, but had not bothered with the attic where they hid, faint with fear.
Miraculously, the house had somehow been spared, when half of the town
surrounding them seemed to be burning still.

Virginia was shaking
uncontrollably, as was Tillie. She remained in a numb state of fear and
terror. Still, she thought about Devlin. He might be ruthless, but she was
sure, as she had never been so sure of anything, that he would never condone
what had been done that day.

She looked at Tillie.
Her long, curly hair had come down to hang wildly about her shoulders. Blood
smeared her pelisse, her dress was torn and muddy, and her eyes were wide and
wild.
Virginia
knew she must look as frightful,
as terrified, as her friend. "Shall we try to go?" she whispered raggedly.
Her heart continued to beat hard and fast, uncomfortable in her chest. Every
time the house creaked, she flinched and whirled, raising the musket she had
taken from a dead man, expecting to confront a British soldier on the attic's
threshold and prepared to fire first.

Tillie nodded,
looking frightened and uncertain.

The street below was
empty, although two buildings still burned. They crept through the house and
slipped outside, holding their guns so tightly their knuckles were white. It remained
hard to breathe, because of the fear, because of the smoke, and because of the
stench of death. The night was starry and lit by a full moon.

Virginia
fought tears. "So many have
died, and for what? Free trade? Land in
Canada
? For what?" she cried, shaking wildly.

Voices could be
heard, drunken, leering, approaching.

"Hush,"
Tillie said hoarsely. "You hush until we are safe at home."

Breathless with
renewed fear, Virginia leaned close and whispered, "We have to find
Frank."

Tillie's eyes
suddenly overflowed with tears. "We both know he can't be alive."

Virginia didn't want
to believe it. But Tillie was probably right. They started down the street at
a quick pace, Virginia determined to ignore the aching in her belly. She had
been fighting mild cramps all day and the baby had been kicking.

Please hang on,
she silently told her unborn
baby.
Just a little longer and we will be safe at home.

She ran alongside
Tillie, wishing Devlin might appear and safely spirit her away, then tell her
that he was wrong,