“It is.”
“I thought you said we’d camp out until we reached Connecticut?”
“So I did. I’ve changed my mind.” He flashed a smile at her. “Now let me do the talking. They don’t know us here.”
Charity was silent as a sleepy innkeeper heard a loquacious Tom say that Bart was his brother “lately from New York” and Charity his “bride from Virginia”; they were heading north, he added gratuitously. Going to try living in Massachusetts.
“You won’t like it there,” the innkeeper told him sourly. “They’re a bigoted lot. I lived among ’em myself. Lucky to escape with my hide.”
Tom looked as if he’d like to agree with him, said, “Ah, well, we’ll think on it. My wife’s tired. Right now she’d like a good bed, but it’s a bit of ale my brother and I’ll be needing.”
The landlord led the way up the small narrow stair.
There were two rooms. Bart took one, Charity and Tom the other.
As the door closed and Tom set down the candle the innkeeper had given him, Charity turned to face him rebelliously.
“Ah,” he smiled, “tonight we sleep in a bed.”
“Two separate beds,” she said coldly. “You can sleep in Bart’s room.”
He gave her a surprised look. “And how would that look when I’ve just told the innkeeper we’re man and wife?”
“I’ll—sleep on the floor,” she said hurriedly.
He looked astonished. “When there’s a bed in the room? No, I can’t allow that. Go on. In with you!” He gave her bottom a smack and herded her fully dressed toward the big feather bed. When she hesitated, he swooped down and swung her up and dropped her into the middle of it where she sank almost smothered by the feather mattress.
She tried to struggle up from the soft enveloping expanse of ticking.
“Take a nap,” he advised. “Bart and I’ll have a drink with the landlord, and I’ll try to find you a dress.”
To her amazement, she heard the latch click, and he was gone.
She considered jumping up and trying to run off, but her general state of exhaustion caused her to fall back. She was soon asleep. She did not even hear the latch when it was raised again.
She came awake with a start when a hand was clapped over her mouth and Tom said in a voice that was barely a whisper, “Up, quick! There are redcoats downstairs, looking for us. Be quiet.” He took his hand away and pulled Charity up so that she slid quietly out of bed and glided with him to the open window. She climbed out and jumped down into Bart’s arms waiting below. Then Tom perched on the sill and dropped lightly to the ground beside her. They ran for their horses, which were stabled and eating contentedly.
Behind them, as they mounted, there was a shout and, as they reached the edge of the woods, a shot followed, but it went wild. Moments later they heard the hooves of pursuing horses.
“Follow close,” called Tom and swung off in a zigzag course between the tree trunks that led him rapidly downhill to a stream which they forded, then climbed another hill to meet the stream again. This time they did not ford it but walked their horses up it until they found a deep pool and climbed out to wait silently on the bank. Tom put his ear to the ground, listening.
“Hear anything?” asked Bart.
Charity knew the earth would seem to shake if horses’ pounding hooves were near. She waited in alarm.
Tom shook his head and stood up. “Could be that we’ve lost them.” He sighed. “Ah, well, at least we drank deep and Charity’s refreshed by her nap.” He peered at Bart. “Think we should make for Lizzie’s place? We should have shook them off long before that.”
Bart shrugged. “It’s as good as any. And she might have word of a haul for us.”
It was all very mysterious to Charity, but she decided not to ask questions. She felt vaguely that she had brought calamity on them by striking out for herself and getting her clothes half torn off. She was just as angry at Tom as ever, but. . . she did not allow herself to finish the thought, just jogged along doggedly after Tom as he wandered through the narrow, almost indiscernible trails in the dense forest.
“Twould be easier if we took to the rivers,” muttered Bart, as they made camp after a long exhausting ride. The brambles and thorn bushes had made their clothing even more ragged and left a cross-hatch of scratches on their arms and legs.
“They might be watching the rivers,” said Tom thoughtfully. “It’s what they’d expect of us, and maybe,” he added ominously, “shunning the rivers is the reason we’ve got this far. Gert must have alerted the redcoats, and they must have followed us into Rhode Island.”
“Or told the local authorities we were here,” said Bart with his mouth full. “We’re wanted here too, remember.”
“Is there any place you’re not wanted?” asked Charity despairingly.
“New York,” said Tom promptly. “That’s where we’re headed.”
New York! Her head spun. But that was endless miles away through the wilderness. She sank into an exhausted sleep, despondently sure they’d never reach their destination.
CHAPTER 8
Tom had made no attempt to make love to her on the journey. Once he had laid his hand on hers caressingly and she had shrugged it off. So, he had sighed and let her be.
Once at a stream out of Bart’s hearing, he had tried to make amends.
“It’s my failing, y’know,” he had explained with a rueful smile. “I’ve never been able to resist a wench who wants wooing.”
“So you belong to all women,” she retorted crisply.
“With none to call my own,” he said a bit wistfully, and reached out to touch her hair, but she turned on her heel and stalked away from him. She was not, she told herself grimly, to be seduced by his soft-talking ways. It helped to be angry at Tom and brood about his wayward manner, for then she did not turn to even more troublesome thoughts about what the future held for her.
After what seemed an endless struggle through the timber, fording rivers—sometimes swimming their horses across—climbing hills, winding down them, the air seemed to change. There was a smell of the sea in the breeze that rippled Charity’s blonde hair and she felt a small surge of excitement. They were nearing the coast at last! But where?
Up ahead, Tom reined in and she saw before them a tiny clearing and a habitation that, though mean and small, might be an inn. It appeared to be a rude two-room structure with a stable. From somewhere came the wild cry of a loon.
“Think it’s all right?” Bart muttered.
“It’s dangerous,” mused Tom. “But—all looks peaceful.”
“If it’s dangerous, why don’t we bypass it?” asked Charity nervously. “We’re near the coast—I can smell the sea air.”
Tom threw her a merry look. “You need a new dress, don’t you? Unless you’ve grown so fond of my coat you won’t part with it?”
“Shut up,” growled Bart, who was edgy. “Either do it or don’t.”
“Wait here,” said Tom tersely, and leaving them in the shelter of the trees he walked his horse to the inn, whistled twice. After a moment a shutter banged open and a head appeared, swathed in a ruffled nightcap, with a pair of long dark braids hanging down.
“Tom!” The woman gave a whoop and Tom said merrily, “Not so loud, Lizzie. Could be I’ve got company not too far back.”
“That so?” The shutter banged shut, and a minute later the door of the inn creaked open and a big woman in the most voluminous nightdress Charity had ever seen burst out. “What do you need, Tom?” she demanded anxiously. “Food I’ve got. Ale I’ve got. A fresh horse?”
“Three fresh horses, and a dress for the lady.” Tom nodded toward the darkness under the tree.
“Lady?” She sounded surprised. “What size lady?” she asked suspiciously.
“About the size of your oldest daughter,” said Tom. She muttered “Cradle robber!” and hurried back inside, returning with a dress of green cloth. “Go to the stable and take your pick of the horses.
I’ll be currying those you’ve got so they won’t look so hard ridden, and I’ll bed ’em down. You can change back with me next time you’re up this way. But you’ll have some vittles and ale first, won’t ye?”
“Thanks, Lizzie.” Tom gave her large bottom a whack, and she gave a happy giggle and trotted off. As the door of the inn banged, Tom waved Charity and Bart forward. They came across the little open space and dismounted. Bart led the horses to the stable, while Tom took Charity inside, where she changed to her new dress.
In the kitchen, Lizzie, talking a blue streak to Tom, banged pots and pans as she prepared them a meal.
The dress was a shade of green much out of fashion, and made of stout cotton material, but it was clean and looked as if it would resist brambles. Although it was both a little tight and a little short, Charity breathed a sigh of relief as she got into it, and went into the next room to return Tom’s much-the-worse-for-wear gray velvet coat.
“Sure, that dress becomes you,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he slipped into his coat again. His roguish smile told her that he’d noted the way it hugged her figure. Lizzie, slapping down three pewter tankards of ale on a table that already groaned under a big roast joint on a wooden charger and three big wooden trenchers, nodded solemnly. “It do look better on her than it did on Betsy,” she averred in a surprised tone.
“How is Betsy?” asked Tom.
“Now don’t you be lookin’ her way, Tom!” Lizzie roared with laughter. “Betsy and the rest are visitin’ with my sister over the next town. Didn’t you come through there?”
Tom shook his head. “We came through the forest.”
“No wonder you look so done in,” said Lizzie sympathetically. “Well, eat up.” She lifted her head as Bart entered. “Bart,” she cried. “It’s been a long time since I seen you here.”
Bart grinned at her. “Where’s your husband, Liz?”
She shrugged. “My John? Out huntin’. Always huntin’. Or fishin’. Never did see the likes of that man. Always gone when there’s firewood to be chopped or kindlin’ to be split.”
For a time they were silent while everybody ate and drank hungrily.
“So there’s been no alarm for us?” asked Tom, after draining his tankard and letting Lizzie fill it up for him again. “That’s surprising, seeing how far they chased us.”
Lizzie shook her head. “Nary sign of redcoats here, Tom. You know I’d tell you quick if there was. Sure, it be plenty safe to stay the night.”
“I’ve a feeling it’s not,” he said restlessly.
“We’d be in the woods still had Tom not wanted a dress for the wench,” growled Bart, and Lizzie nodded.
“Well, and so he was right. He can’t have her ridin’ through the woods half naked, now can he? And sure I’ve seen enough of his gold to let him have what he wants without askin’ for ready cash.”
Tom smiled at her. “You’re the right kind of woman, Lizzie,” he said. “But we’ll not be tarrying here this night. I’ve a chill feeling in my bones that all’s not right. We’re for New York.”
“Oh?” Lizzie was instantly alert. “Could be there’d be a boat down by the shore t’other side of the bluff that might take you there.”
Bart guffawed. “So that’s where your husband is? At the shore unloadin’ contraband!”
Lizzie shrugged. “Well, you say they are after you, and I’m thinkin’ that if you get took, then you can’t tell them what you don’t know, can you?” she said sensibly. “But if I were you, I’d hurry. Could be they’re still there.”
“Thanks!” Tom’s smile flashed. “I won’t forget you, Lizzie, when my pockets are lined with gold.”
“No, I know you won’t, Tom.” She gave his shoulder an affectionate pat. All women loved him, thought Charity grimly.
Lizzie stood in the doorway and watched them ride away, a stout woman in a huge shapeless gown, outlined vaguely against the candlelight. And Charity thought how strange life was in these raw new colonies, as she thundered along with Tom and Bart through the moonswept night, heading for the coast.
Tom seemed to know his way well. He guided his horse smoothly, surely, between the trees. Behind her she could sense Bart’s impatience as his mount’s head almost nuzzled her horse’s flank.
Soon they found themselves moving between two low bluffs on a single-file path, descending sharply.
The salt air was sharper now and she could hear the raucous call of birds, and hear the pounding of the surf even before the vista opened up before them. Moving out onto low dunes, they saw in the distance what appeared to be a merchantman lying at anchor, sails lightly billowing as if impatient to be gone. On the beach nearby were two piled-up longboats, swarming with men, and two wagons.
“There’s John,” said Bart excitedly. “Ho there, John!” He slapped his horse’s flank and galloped across the dunes towards the startled men unloading the longboats.
Charity would have followed suit, but Tom stayed her. A musket was fired, and Bart reined up indignantly. “John,” he roared, “you tell them I’m a friend. I’ve Tom Blade and a woman with me.”
“Hold yer fire,” called a hoarse voice which seemed to come from the heaviest-set man of the group. “Bart’s a friend, like he says. Come on here, the three of ye.”
Tom relaxed, and he and Charity cantered across the dunes, their horses floundering a bit in the soft sand. Then everyone was shaking hands and nodding. But greetings were abruptly cut short as Lizzie’s John said, “Fall in and help, if ye like. We’d best be quick. Could be someone’s seen the ship out there.”
As Tom and Bart worked, they inquired about the chances of a ride to New York. It could be managed, they were told. A ketch out yonder was being loaded now and would sail in close to the coast and unload into hay wagons to be driven into the city. The bargain was quickly struck and they were half unloaded when there was a sudden rattle of musketry from the heights and the sound of, “Halt there, in the name of the king!”
“We been betrayed!” cried Lizzie’s John in consternation. “Grab what you can, lads! Into the boats, quick!”
In the ensuing furor, Charity felt Tom lift her up and toss her into the nearest longboat. She crouched down, frightened, hearing musket balls whistle about as the men heaved mightily to launch the beached boats. Tom was the last to jump in. Others were already pulling at the oars as he did so. He landed with a sudden gasp at Charity’s feet and in the moonlight she saw a dark stain spreading across the shoulder of his velvet coat.
Charity let out a cry.
Tom, clutching her about the legs, raised himself a little, painfully. “Faith, it’s not so much of a wound,” he gasped, and passed out, his tawny head falling on her lap.
“Hurry!” cried Charity. “Is there a doctor on that ship?”
“Aye,” was the surly answer from a sturdy fellow pulling at the oars. “A pirate’s doctor he be and good with wounds.”
“Tom.” Tears were running down her face now as she cradled his head and tried to staunch the flow of blood with a ruffle torn off of her petticoat. “Tom, can you hear me?”
“Best you leave him be,” muttered the man beside her, sweating as he pulled at the oars. He ducked as a musket ball came across the water. The king’s men on shore were cursing because they had no boats. Still, they had ended up with most of the contraband, the horses and wagons.
The boats were well out on the water now, too far for any kind of accurate marksmanship, and the men called back raucous insults at the uniformed men on the beach, which were answered by curses and a spattering of gunfire.
As they reached the ship’s rounded side, Tom came to. He rallied and looked up at Charity with a smile. “Be not so mournful, m’love,” he said jauntily. “I’ve lived through worse, and will again.”
She stroked his hair and tried to smile back at him through her tears, but it was an effort. Bart, in the other boat, called over to them, “How’s Tom?” for he had seen Tom struck down by the bullet, and Charity
answered in a quivering voice, “I don’t know.”
“Living,” amended a laconic voice.
“Tis a scratch,” called Tom and coughed. Charity winced, feeling Tom shudder as a sharp pain went through him.
Then they were swarming aboard the merchantman, which was no merchantman at all, Charity realized. The ship had many gunports which could be opened to fire on honest shippers. A great blackbearded man who seemed to be the captain rumbled, “Who be these?”
As the ship’s doctor, a wiry rat-faced fellow, inspected Tom’s wound, he muttered, “It’s bad, I’m afraid.”
“Couldst give me passage to Barbados?” asked Tom of the blackbearded captain.
“Near enough, if you’ve gold to pay for it,” was the rejoinder.
Tom tried to reach for his belt, shuddered and said faintly, “Charity, there’s a money pouch. Keep one gold coin for yourself. Give him the rest.”
Charity found the pouch and surrendered the money—all but one coin.
“Nay,” said the blackbearded man. “Tis not enough.” He eyed Charity.
Silently she handed him the last gold coin and took from around her neck the little gold chain that she had managed to smuggle even into the jail. It had been her mother’s and her mother’s likeness was in the locket. “It’s all I have,” she said pleadingly.
“Tis enough,” pronounced the captain. And added, “Free passage for you, Mistress Golden Hair.”
“No,” said Tom in a stronger voice. “She goes with Bart.”
“As you will,” the captain shrugged. “Are you loaded there?”
Bart called to one of the men on the ketch, “You’ve two passengers would like to go along. We’ll help you unload.”
“Tis done, if you’ll drive one of the wagons into New York,” boomed a voice from the ketch. “I’m short a driver.”
“I’ll do it,” said Bart. And to Charity, “Come along. They can’t be kept waiting.”
Still Charity lingered, bending over Tom. “Oh, Tom, why can’t I go with you?” Her voice broke. “The captain said I could have free passage. And I could take care of you. You’ll need someone.”
This Loving Torment Page 10
