Chapter 25
Rebecca pushed aside the cup of chocolate and lay back against the bed pillows. “No, thank you,” she said weakly. Mistress Flanders had tried to administer laudanum to her earlier in the evening, and Rebecca was suspicious of the hot drink. “I’d rather sleep, if you don’t mind, Rachel.” She put two fingers over her lips in pretended distress. “I hope I’m not troubled by dreams of that savage. Is he far away?”
“Far enough for you not to worry,” Rachel soothed. “We are quite a few blocks from the river.”
“He’s at the river still . . . where they . . .”
“Yes. Jonathan told me that he will remain under close guard. They will leave him tied to the stake tonight as an example to other wrongdoers.”
Rebecca looked around her as though she expected an Indian attack at any moment. “Which way is that? The river?”
Rachel pointed toward the side windows. “Down there, but you need have no fear. There will be soldiers to watch him tonight, and at dawn they carry him aboard ship to sail for England.” She offered the chocolate again. “Just take a little,” she begged. “You’ve not eaten enough to keep a bird alive today. Chocolate always helps me to sleep.” The corners of her pouty mouth turned up in a forced smile. Then she sipped daintily from her own cup.
“Perhaps later,” Rebecca hedged.
“My slave girl, Faith, will sit with you tonight. Your husband was afraid you would be left alone, but I assured him we will take good care of you.”
And give me no chance to escape, Rebecca thought.
Rachel finished her chocolate and a sweet biscuit and rose to leave. “I will expect you to come down for breakfast in the morning, dear.”
“I’m sure I will feel up to it,” she answered.
Rachel murmured a few more words and left the room. As soon as she did, Rebecca switched the Quaker woman’s empty cup for her full one.
Seconds later, the door opened, and a tall, willow thin maid entered the bedchamber. “I’m to sit wi’ ye, lady,” she said. “I’m Faith.” She was no more than sixteen and garbed all in black with a white apron and cap. The toes of her black shoes were scuffed and worn and her stockings patched. She came close to the bed and stood wringing her hands as if she were not sure what to do.
Rebecca noticed that the hem of the maid’s skirt and her sleeves were inches too short for propriety. Faith is still a growing girl, she decided, and probably has a healthy appetite. Perhaps the charity of this good Quaker household doesn’t extend to feeding their servants well.
“You may sit there,” Rebecca said. She waved to the chair Rachel had just vacated, the chair next to the bedside table containing the chocolate and the plate of tea biscuits. “Have some chocolate and a sweet if you like,” Rebecca said softly. “They’re very good.”
An hour later, Faith was dozing in the bed and Rebecca was hastily dressing. She slipped down the back stairs of the Flanders home, sneaked through the kitchen past the snoring cook on her pallet, and went out the back door. She took nothing with her but her own clothing, a few biscuits, and a man’s cloak and hat she found hanging on pegs in the hall.
It was a cloudy night with no moon, and black as the inside of the devil’s boot. She wasn’t certain she could find the place where Talon was still held captive using Rachel’s vague directions, but she knew she had to try. Getting him loose once she found him would be another problem. She hadn’t bothered to look for a weapon. In a Quaker household, she didn’t suppose she’d find a gun.
Behind the house were several smaller structures, a smoke house, and a stable. She slipped into the barn and used her nose and ears to find the nearest horse. Finding a bridle and saddle in the darkness of a strange tack room was even harder. But saddling the animal was easy once she’d fed it the biscuits.
Rebecca couldn’t help smiling as she thought about Rachel’s plan to drug her with the laudanum. Wouldn’t she be surprised in the morning when she found the maid asleep instead of Rebecca.
She patted the horse’s neck and whispered to him as she led him out through a back gate and along an alley. She hoped she wouldn’t be seen, or that she wouldn’t lose complete sense of the direction. Once she was several houses away from the grand Flanders’ mansion, she coaxed the gelding over to a mounting block and scrambled up into the saddle, riding astride, despite the disarray of her skirts and petticoats.
Following the street, she rode past large town houses that gradually gave way to smaller dwellings and then what she thought might be places of business. The road ended near the water, but not in the place she wanted to be. Her choice was to turn left or right. She chose right and followed the river for a short ways, then reversed her path when she saw that buildings were farther and farther apart and she seemed to be riding into a marsh.
She had no idea how long it had taken her to come this far, but she couldn’t quit now. She was a horse thief, and if they caught her, she’d be tried and hanged. She had to free Talon and they had to make their escape before dawn. If he couldn’t ride because of the whipping, she vowed she’d find a way to tie him on the horse.
The cobwebs that had clouded her mind since Siipu had fallen with the musket ball in her back were gone. Her body was still weak, but it didn’t matter. She and Talon were both alive, and God willing, they’d both survive to reach the Ohio country again. She wished Simon no harm, but she never wanted to lay eyes on his face again.
The sound of raucous male laughter and breaking glass alerted her to the drinking establishment ahead. Immediately, she dismounted and led the horse into another alley and tied it to the wheel of a large wagon. Keeping in the shadows, she crept close. As she’d suspected, the noise was coming from a waterfront tavern. What better place to find a weapon, she thought, than in a den of rascals?
She crouched next to an adjoining building clutching a barrel stave for the better part of an hour, while sailors and townfolk wandered in and out of the tavern. Some moved with a firm step, others seemed to have lost their sense of balance. But none seemed drunk enough for her purpose.
Finally, a smartly dressed gentleman staggered from the door. When he lifted his arm to bid farewell to a companion inside, Rebecca caught sight of a brace of pistols at his waist.
Come this way. Come this way, she pleaded silently. Why hadn’t she listened more carefully to her father’s tales of highwaymen? She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she didn’t intend to let this prize escape. Judging from the cut of his coat and the shine on his boots, he could afford the loss of a pistol.
Sweet Saint Katherine forgive me, she thought. First a horse thief, now a robber. She waited, heart thudding, as the man turned first one way and then the other. She couldn’t resist a tiny moan of relief when he began to amble in her direction.
She felt sick to her stomach. If she didn’t get a gun, how would she have any chance of saving Talon? But to get the pistol, she’d have to hit an innocent man over the head. Oh, well, she decided. In for a penny, in for a pound. With trembling hands, she lifted the piece of wood.
At that instant, a second figure moved out of darkness not three yards away. “Your money or your life!” he snarled.
Instead of handing over his money, the drunk put up a struggle. Both men fell cursing to the gutter in a tangle of arms and legs. The attacker punched and the victim beat him around the head with one of his pistols. Someone inside the tavern shouted, and two men burst out of the doorway. The thief got to his feet, ran a few steps, stumbled, and fell flat on his face. More men poured out into the street, and someone fired a shot. The drunk got up, fell down, and got up again, all the while yelling for all he was worth. And somewhere in the confusion, a painted whore in a scandalous red gown screamed and a pistol landed at Rebecca’s feet.
“Thank you, God,” she murmured. She dropped the board, scooped up the flintlock, and ran like the hounds of hell were on her heels. The angry crowd pursued the footpad in the opposite direction down the street. Rebecca arrived at the spot where she’d tied the horse with only a few bruises from bumping into walls in the darkness. She threw her arms around the gelding’s neck in relief and managed to get into the saddle on the third try.
She rode away from the river and circled around, turning back toward the docks several streets over. This time, she found the open square. The green seemed deserted except for the slumped figure still tied to the post and a single sentry sitting beside a campfire.
Leaving the horse tied to a tree, she tucked the pistol under her cape and strolled to the edge of the firelight. As soon as he caught sight of her, the redcoat leaped to his feet and pointed his musket at her.
“Halt!” he cried. “Who goes there?”
“‘Tis only Molly McCarthy,” she said, in her broadest Irish accent. “Don’t shoot me, sir, I beg o’ ye. I only wanted to see the red man fer meself.” She flashed him her biggest smile. “Sure’n a brawny captain, such as yerself, can’t be afraid of a defenseless colleen.”
“I’m hardly a captain,” he corrected. “There was a sergeant here, but he went to wet his whistle and left me with the prisoner.” He looked around. “Are you alone, woman?”
She laughed. “Not now, I’m hopin’.”
He relaxed and lowered his musket. “What are you doing wandering the streets at night?” He scowled at her. “You look too pretty to be a tavern slut, and that’s a fact.”
“I should hope I’m not. I’m a good girl, I am. I just works nights is all. Me da is a fish dealer. We have to get up early. Folks want their fish at daybreak.”
“Come closer, fish girl, and let me get a look at you.”
“After what you called me?”
“Want to see the Indian, do you?”
“Aye.” She let her skirts sway, just a little. “I do.” it
“He’s a cannibal, they say.”
“Do tell.” She gave him a long, meaningful look.
“When they caught him, he’d murdered twenty men single handed. They say he ate their livers and made a jacket of their scalps.”
“No . . .” Rebecca shivered.
“Come on, have a glance then. He’s harmless enough now.”
“Is he dead?”
“Save the king a bucket of coin if he was, but a healthy man don’t die of no twenty lashes. Fifty now, that’s a different tune. I saw a sergeant . . .”
Rebecca ignored his rambling. All she could think of was Talon. She tried to keep from trembling as she followed the soldier away from the firelight toward the whipping post. The March night was damp; fingers of mist crept in from the waterfront laden with the smells of ships and foreign cargo. From somewhere off across the water came the shrill note of a boatswain’s pipe.
Four paces away from the stake, Rebecca could stand the tension no longer. She whipped the heavy flintlock pistol out from under her cape and used both hands to ease the hammer back. The ominous click was impossible to mistake.
“What the hell—” the sentry cried.
She jammed the muzzle against his spine. “Not a sound,” she said. “Not unless you want to spend the rest of your life crawling on your belly. Untie the prisoner.”
“I can’t—”
She jabbed him harder. “I mean it, English. I’m an Irish rebel who’s already killed more redcoats than Willy Brennan. I’ll shoot as quick as I would a rat. I swear, I will.”
“Woman . . . don’t do this. That red man’s dangerous. If I—”
“One more word out of you and they’ll send both halves of you back to England in a pickle barrel,” she threatened. “Talon?”
“Yuho.”
Yes. She was breathless with fear, but the sound of his voice made her want to shout with joy. He was hurt badly, she could tell. But he was strong enough to do what had to be done. “Can you walk if this soldier unties you?” she whispered.
“If you cut the rope, this one can walk on water.”
“I don’t think we want to cut it,” she said. “We’ll find better use for it.” She dug the pistol into the soldier’s back again. “Untie the prisoner. Don’t make a sound and you may live through this.”
“I’ll be court-martialed.”
“Better that than claiming six feet of Pennsylvania graveyard. Do it!”
Talon groaned and nearly fell to his knees when the ropes came loose. She wanted to catch him, but she didn’t dare take the pistol away from the redcoat’s back.
“Talon?”
“My muscles are just stiff,” he replied hoarsely.
She bit her lower lip as she watched him pull himself erect and step away from the post. After so many hours with his arms over his head, she could imagine the effort it cost him to keep from screaming with pain.
“Tie him in my place,” Talon said.
“Get over there,” she ordered the sentry. He obeyed without another word.
Talon’s wrists were still manacled, but working together, they managed to tie the soldier to the stake. She handed the pistol to Talon and tore off a section of the soldier’s shirt to gag him.
Taking his musket, powder horn, and cartridge pouch, Rebecca led the way through the darkness to the spot where she’d left the gelding. “I have only one horse for us both,” she said. “Two would have been better, but I was—”
He made a sound of amusement. “You have freed me, Sweet Water. Should a man complain because you didn’t lead a Shawnee war party here?”
“I brought you this hat,” she explained, sticking it on his head. “And a long cloak.” He winced as she wrapped the garment around his shoulders and the rough wool fibers grated against his lacerated back.
His breathing was loud and labored in the mist. “Are you all right?” she asked, then felt her face go hot at her own foolishness. Of course, he wasn’t all right. They were both in terrible danger.
Talon’s movements were slow and obviously painful. “I’ll be all right if I can wash the stink of this Englishmanake town off me,” he answered.
“There’s truth. You smell like a dead goat.” She suddenly realized that she’d never seen him on a horse. “Can you ride? If you can’t, I—”
“I can ride, Meshepeshe.”
Meshepeshe. Lioness. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn’t care what he smelled like. She wanted to throw her arms around him, to cover his face with kisses, but this wasn’t the time or the place. “Talon . . .” she began huskily, “I thought . . . I thought you were dead.”
“Counts His Scalps lives as well. He escaped. I don’t know if he was wounded.”
“They never told me that you were alive.”
“A bullet grazed my skull. I was taken captive and turned over to British soldiers. I’ve been in a cell here in Philadelphia for weeks.”
“I didn’t know,” she repeated. All the time she’d believed him dead and wanted to die herself . . . all those wasted tears . . . “Siipu saved my life at the cost of her own. I’m so sorry she had to die.”
“My sister—the one whose name we do not say,” he corrected her gently, “has the spirit of Osage Killer to guide her across the river to our father’s lodge.”
The effort it took for him to mount and help her up behind him brought tears to her eyes, but she would not break down now. She had too much pride to let him see her cry tonight.
“This man believed you dead as well.”
“I’m not.”
He chuckled. “You mean a ghost did not save this man from the torture stake?”
“Not a ghost, but not Rebecca Brandt anymore, either.”
“This one knew that. But you have the courage of that sky-eyed Irish woman.”
“I mean to go with you, Talon,” she warned him. “Wherever you go, from this day forth. So long as I live, I will follow you.”
“N’mamentschi. My heart rejoices.”
“And mine,” she whispered.
“We will be married.”
She shook her head. “I can’t, not as long as Simon lives. And if I pledge my life to you, I want an end to the bloodshed.”
“You ask more than this man can give. If my people need—”
“Not all bloodshed,” she said. “Just Simon’s blood. I couldn’t sleep at night knowing that I bought my happiness with my husband’s death. Will you give me that, Talon?”
“You will not be my wife?”
“Not will not, cannot. It is my faith, Talon. I can live with you in glorious sin, but I can’t marry.”
“Another was his wife, not you, not the Shawnee woman, Sweet Water.”
“You may pretend that, Talon. You may even believe it, but I’m not that much Indian.”
“So.” He gave a sound of finality. “Do you still care for Simon Brandt?”
“No. But I won’t dirty my soul with hating him. There’s been enough hate. Let someone else kill him—God knows he deserves a painful death and a quick trip to hell.”
“You ask me to break the vow I made on my mother’s grave?”
“If you love me, then—”
“We will live together, Sweet Water. In my heart, you will be my wife.”
“And in my heart, you will be my husband,” she promised.
He exhaled softly. “Do you know the way out of this city?”
“Straight west.”
He looked up at the sky. “Two hours before dawn.”
“Will it be enough?”
“I don’t know.” He turned the animal’s head away from the square and dug his heels into the gelding’s sides. The horse started forward, and Talon reined him to a trot. “We must go quietly,” he said. “There will be time enough for running later.”
I hope, Rebecca thought.
They had gone no more than a block when muskets roared behind them. Seconds later came the urgent tattoo of a military drum. “The soldiers,” she cried. “They’ve found out you escaped.”
His only reply was to slap the horse’s neck. The animal leaped forward, his hooves clattering over the damp cobblestones as he broke into a hard canter. Rebecca clutched tightly to Talon’s waist, closed her eyes, and began to pray.