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Ulster County, New York
April 1, 1777
––––––––
Throughout the day the wind had been unceasing. Sweeping southeast out of the Adirondack Mountains, the icy blast moaned in the treetops like a living thing, pelting the horse and rider plodding along the narrow rutted track with stinging shards of sleet.
Enveloped in a worn woolen cloak and an air of bone-deep weariness, Draegan Youngblood glanced at the lowering skies, and then at the small stone structure down the way. By straining hard, he could just make out the steeple topped the bell tower, silhouetted a dim gray against the bleak countryside.
A church.
His mouth twitched slightly at the corners; he was too cold and numb to smile. He was sadly in need of shelter, yet somehow this was not quite what he'd had in mind. Like some wistful old maid dreaming of a husband, he'd been hoping to come upon a tavern. Nothing fancy, mind you, just a simple sleepy place with a roaring fire and a dram of good whiskey to banish the chill. A place where a ragged stranger could buy a night's lodging with the last of his coin without having to answer a host of questions or fend off the suspicious stares thrown his way.
As he approached, Draegan saw that the stone walls looked sturdy. Sturdy enough, certainly, to provide an adequate buffer against the icy bite of the ceaseless wind. The windows were black and empty. Not a flicker of light shone from within to dispel the encroaching darkness; not a single whiff of smoke rose from the chimneys to taint the wind.
The skeletal remains of last season's weeds, the rectory door hanging slightly askew on its hinges, spoke clearly to the weary traveler.
The place was deserted, and a far cry from the haven that he had envisioned throughout the bitter afternoon. There would be no dry wood, no comfortable fire, no whiskey to warm him. Then again, there would be no probing questions to answer, not a single suspicious stare.
And he'd quite had his fill of questions.
For a moment, Draegan sat his mount in the midst of the track, torn between his desire for privacy and his fondness for the pleasures of the flesh, while the sleet gathered in the folds of his sodden cloak and his matted sable-colored hair lashed his wind-burned face. He glanced again at the forlorn-looking chapel and decided to press on. Though he'd given up hope of finding a cheery taproom, with a bit of luck, he might yet come upon a Dutch boerderij. There, in exchange for news of the war, the farmer and his wife would provide him a length of sausage, a hard-cooked egg or two, and grant him leave to sleep in the barn until cock's crow.
Fate, however, saw fit to deny Draegan that bit of good luck. Indeed, the good fortune that had seen him through a harrowing autumn in British-held New York City had seemingly run out. At that moment, the ancient sway-backed nag he'd purchased from a farmer on the outskirts of Princeton, and which had carried him all the way to this secluded hollow in the Catskill Mountains, refused to budge, and no amount of cursing or coaxing could persuade the weary beast to take another step.
With a sigh of disgust and no other recourse, Draegan dismounted and, taking up the reins, limped heavily along the rutted lane, leading the exhausted animal toward the cheerless little chapel.
His progress was painfully slow, the path treacherous. He slipped on the wet, uneven ground, cursing at the pain in his left thigh. By the time he reached the small shed behind the rectory and stabled the mare, he was sweating profusely and beginning to see the abandoned church in a different light.
There was nothing like a cold dose of misery to bring one's priorities clearly into focus, Draegan thought, making his way to the chapel. At the moment, his own were abundantly clear. The wound he'd suffered just before Christmas while en route to Washington's winter encampment had been taxed to its limits in his effort to reach Albany.
He needed rest—in a place where he could lick his wounds in peace. As he stepped into the sanctuary and closed the door on the wintry night, Draegan knew that he had found that place.
A living, throbbing, profound silence filled the air around him, reached out to enfold him, promised him the solace he sought, despite the sinful, pleasure-loving creature he was, despite the fact that he hadn't come to worship, hadn't come seeking forgiveness.
Nearly two years had passed since he'd seen his home in the Mohawk Valley, near Albany, and it seemed a lifetime ago that he'd set foot inside a proper church. For a long time Draegan had avoided God, knowing that He wouldn't approve of the things that he'd done for the sake of his country, for the sake of his somewhat dissipated self.
Spying was an unsavory business at best, but in wartime, a necessary one. It was also a business to which Draegan was well suited, and he had little doubt that his singular lack of conscience had played a large part in his success. But then, he was a firm believer that moral convictions had no place upon the battlefield... or in the boudoir, for that matter.
The bedchambers of New York City had been his battleground throughout the previous autumn months—the lonely wives and daughters of Tories serving the King were resources to be used in order to gain a victory.
General Washington, unfortunately, did not share Draegan's lack of principle, and once the general had gotten wind of Draegan's scandalous escapades in New York involving a married woman, as well as the disastrous consequences of the affair, he had taken it upon himself to chastise Draegan for what he deemed "an unpardonable lack of ethics."
In a matter of hours, Draegan, too valuable an asset to the Army to be summarily dismissed, had been presented with a transfer to Schuyler's command at Albany. He was being sent home in disgrace. Yet oddly enough, tonight, this instant, none of that seemed to matter. He was here to rest, not to be judged. Shrugging out of his damp cloak, he sank down onto the high-backed wooden pew and closed his eyes, willing the pain to lessen. A few moments' rest was all that he needed. A few moments and he would be nearly good as new...
Sometime later Draegan abruptly awakened, dragged from a deep and dreamless sleep by voices, sounding very near.
"Don't look like much, now, does he, lads, to be causin' such a stir?" one man said.
"He don't at that," another replied. "But neither did that rabid wolf that kilt old Homer Jameson five month back."
Feeling disoriented, Draegan glanced around the semicircle of faces, floating disembodied in the watery light of a tallow lamp held high. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded. "What do you mean, disturbing my sleep?"
"We're the Esopus Rangers," said the man who held the lantern, "and you'll do well to keep your yap shut until you’re told to do otherwise!"
Draegan glanced from one man to another. By now his eyes had adjusted to the light, and he could see that the six men gathered around the pew on which he sat were similarly dressed, in short buckskin coats and homespun breeches. Each man had a wide leather belt slung over his left shoulder and a jaunty hat of soft black felt perched upon his head. "Local militia," Draegan said with soft derision. "I might have known. You're too well fed for Continentals."
The comment seemed to anger the man who held the lantern, for he growled at Draegan, "Tory scum! Ye'll show a bit o' deference, or by God, I'll—" He underscored his unfinished threat with a kick and a cuff, the first of which caught Draegan on the shin of his injured leg.
With a muttered imprecation, Draegan started up, but he was instantly seized by half a dozen hard hands, shoved back against the pew, and pinned. "I'm not a Tory," he said with rising fury. "And I'll be damned if I'll be detained by a bunch of homebound vigilantes!"
Draegan threw off the restraining hands and started to rise, but a thin pockmarked man on the far left pulled a pistol from his coat and thrust it into Draegan's face. "Tory or no, you ain't goin' nowhere, till you talk to Captain Quill!"
As if on cue, those gathered around him parted, allowing a burly young man to take his place in the fore. The new arrival was garbed like his companions with two exceptions: his hat was made of expensive beaver, and he wore a brace of elegant silver pistols thrust conspicuously through his wide leather belt.
Draegan glared up at the newcomer, unimpressed by his air of self-importance. "Are you the master of this pack of slavering hounds?"
"Captain Randall Quill of the Esopus Rangers," the young man said with a flash of uneven teeth. "And you, sir, would be well advised to keep a civil tongue in your head. My men are understandably short on patience. We lost a man half a mile south of here not a quarter hour ago, shot down by a certain varlet we were chasing. The assailant eluded us, but we've good reason to believe he didn't get far."
"These are troubled times," Draegan responded. "But it doesn't give you leave to burst in and lay hands on me. I would strongly suggest that you call your men off."
The light in Quill's eyes turned brittle; his expression lost all traces of affability. "You aren't in any position to be making demands."
"And you are in no position to detain me," Draegan said icily. With an effort, he calmed himself. "Look, I'm sorry about your man, but it has nothing to do with me. My name is Youngblood. I'm a major in the Continental Army, formerly with Washington, and but recently transferred to Schuyler's command at Albany. I was en route there when this inclement weather struck and I was forced to seek shelter for the night."
"Indeed?" Quill said. "How long ago did you arrive?"
"Before dark."
"And you have been here ever since?"
Draegan nodded, watching as Quill reached for the bundle of dark cloth that had been carelessly draped over the back of the pew, and which until this moment had gone unnoticed. It was a cloak, made of fine linen and dotted with brilliant shards of sleet, a cloak that differed greatly in quality and cleanliness from the dingy woolen garment that had seen him through the past two winters, and which, he noticed with a jolt of uneasiness, seemed to be missing....
"How, then, do you explain this?" Quill shook the garment out, flinging the frozen moisture into Draegan's face.
Draegan frowned. How indeed? What possible reason would someone have for entering the chapel while he was sleeping, and exchanging this fine cloak for his tattered one? It made no sense, and the only answer he could give sounded lame, even to his own ears. “That garment isn't mine. I don't know how it came to be here."
At that moment, another man entered. "I found the bay in the shed in back, Cap'n. A gelding, lathered up; I'd say it had a real good run."
Draegan glanced up sharply. The ornate brass cross adorning the wall above the pulpit, symbol of goodness and mercy, was visible over Quill's left shoulder. The sight of it should have calmed him; instead he felt an overwhelming sense of presentiment, as if he were teetering on the edge of a precipice, and the earth was disintegrating beneath his feet.
"My mount is old," he said, "a dappled gray I purchased from a farmer on the outskirts of Princeton, and so rheumatic she can barely manage a trot."
Quill planted his hands on his hips and leaned slightly toward Draegan. "We followed our man here to this church, where he disappeared. Upon entering we find you feigning sleep, in possession of a cloak whose folds still hold the chill of the elements; the murderer's horse is stabled in back and your own mount nowhere to be found. Yet you claim the cloak and horse don't belong to you; you have seen no one enter and no one leave, and have no knowledge of our comrade's murder! You must take me for an idiot!"
Draegan's expression darkened. "I was not feigning anything, Captain, and everything I have told you is true. I haven't been out of this church since nightfall. What earthly reason could I, a stranger passing through this valley, have to harm your friend?"
Draegan's demand was met with silence.
"You don't have to take my word for it!" Draegan said. "Search my things, dammit! You'll find my transfer papers there. Or better yet, send word to Schuyler in Albany. He'll substantiate everything I've told you."
The pockmarked man crouched to rummage through Draegan's belongings. "Papers, Cap'n."
"Let's see those." Quill took them from his hands, and as he read his face hardened. "This is a report on the strengths and weaknesses of the American fortifications near Nevilton. It's signed 'Sparrowhawk'."
Draegan was on his feet in an instant, facing down Captain Randall Quill. "I don't give a damn how it's signed," he shouted angrily. "Those papers were planted, don't you see? As were the cloak and the horse! Someone pilfered my things and left these in exchange, to make me look guilty of a crime in which I played no part! For the love of Christ, Captain, you have to listen to me!"
Quill's expression was cold and unyielding. "You surprise me, sir. Somehow I would have thought the wily Sparrowhawk would spin a livelier tale than the one you are telling. But then, your talents do seem to lie in other directions, don't they? And I don't suppose it ever occurred to you that you'd be caught... much less by the local militia."
Draegan grabbed the breast of Quill's deerskin coat in both fists, desperate now to convince him. He'd gone cold as the grave in that instant, and could almost feel his life ebbing away. "I swear by all that's holy, Captain, I am not the man you seek!"
Quill shoved him roughly off, nodding to his men. "Take him."
At that moment, something snapped inside Draegan. He drew back his fist and swung with all his might at Randall Quill. The blow connected solidly with the militia captain's outthrust chin and sent him sprawling across the back of the forward pew.
Several of the rangers grappled for a hold on Draegan while he sought to break away. Heart racing, driven by a wild desperation, he flung them off and vaulted the high back of the pew on which he'd so soundly slept moments before, only to land on his injured leg.
He fell hard, cursing as his tormentors caught him by the arms and dragged him to his feet.
Randall Quill stepped forward. Blood trickled from the corner of his ruined mouth; his eyes were filled with rage. Without preamble, he pulled back his fist and slammed it into Draegan's middle, once, twice, thrice....
Draegan fell to his knees, unable to breathe. His head spun crazily, and for one awful moment he was afraid he was going to be sick.
"Bind his hands," Quill ordered. Then, turning to the man nearest him, he said, "Jacob, ready the rope."
But Jacob seemed wont to argue. "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, whether the man's a spy or not, he deserves a hearin'. Maybe we should take him to Lucien Deane. He'll know what to do."
"I gave you an order, Private Deeter," Quill said, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth. He barely glanced at Draegan, whose hands were being forced up and tied behind his back. "What will it be, Private Deeter? Will you follow me, or swing with Sparrowhawk?"
Silence followed Quill's question, broken only by Draegan's occasional gasp. Those observing the confrontation between Quill and his subordinate exchanged uneasy glances.
Without another word, Jacob Deeter turned and went out, and Randall Quill looked pointedly at those remaining. "Well? What of the rest of you? Have you something to say concerning these proceedings?"
The rangers looked at one another, at their feet, or at the dark windowpanes, anywhere to avoid looking at Draegan. "That's more like it," Quill said after a moment. "Now, get him out of here."
Taking Draegan by the upper arms, the rangers hauled him to his feet, propelling him through the church doors and into the night.
At the far corner of the graveyard stood a stately old maple with strong, spreading limbs, and from one of those limbs a hastily fashioned noose swung in the wind. A few feet away, the pockmarked ranger waited beside a tall stump.
Jacob Deeter was nowhere to be seen.
Quill seemed not to notice. He motioned for his men to aid Draegan's ascent, then stood smiling as the noose was put around his neck. "I will doubtless receive some sort of commendation for bringing Sparrowhawk to justice." He grinned up at Draegan. "Well, sir, is there anything you wish to say before you leave this world?"
Draegan stared down into the ranger captain's face. "You'll earn more than a commendation for this night's work, Quill. You'll earn a place in Hell."
Draegan heard Quill laugh as he kicked his legs from under him, and then he heard nothing but the howl of the wind in the boughs of the maple, and the protesting creak of the rope.
Crouched in the shadow of a headstone at the graveyard's farthest edge, Jacob Deeter watched with horrified fascination as the macabre scene unfolded. Moments before the deed was done, the rangers who had taken part had begun to melt away. Perhaps, like Jacob, they were ashamed in the face of such righteous defiance, yet too afraid of crossing Randall Quill to call a halt to the unjust proceedings. They had families to think of, after all, and so they slunk quietly away, leaving only Randall Quill to carry out the distasteful task and Jacob to bear a silent witness.
In less than a heartbeat it was over, and Jacob could do nothing but mutter a hasty prayer for the soul of the unfortunate stranger.
Randall Quill glanced once at his victim, then hastily made his exit.
As soon as Quill was out of sight, Jacob slipped from cover and ran to the maple. Clambering up on the stump, he severed the rope and eased the body to the frozen ground, sinking down beside it.
"Dear Lord in Heaven, what have we done?" Jacob moaned, covering his face with his hands. "Murder, that's what. We've done murder. And I'm as damned in the eyes of God as the rest of ‘em."
Jacob rocked on his knees in nervous agitation. The wail of the storm wind seemed to mock him. "Oh," he said, "if only there was something I could do. Calm. I need to stay calm, and try to think." He reached inside his coat, his trembling fingers seeking the comfort of the familiar flask. "A drop or two will help steady my nerves, and then I'll decide what's to be done for you."
The ranger sat back on his heels and tipped the flask, just as the man beside him gave a violent shudder and sat straight up, gasping for breath, causing Jacob to drop the whiskey and scramble back in terror.