“Because he wants me,” said Charity in exasperation. “Last year in New York he tried to sell me to some trappers, but I escaped him. Oh, be careful, Ben.”
“Go to bed,” he instructed. “And pull the ladder up after thee. I will guard through the night.”
Charity climbed the ladder and had pulled it up before Bart came back. She realized that this was the first time it had ever occurred to either of them that she should pull the ladder up. She had slept up here from the first, completely unafraid of Ben; she had had no fear that he would climb that ladder unasked.
She lay there tensely, listening to Bart ask about her and then grow surly when Ben said she had gone to bed since she always rose early in the morning. Charity realized with a sinking feeling that her stay on this little isolated farm in the wilds must now come to an end. If Bart heard she had escaped from the patroon, he would scent a reward and make his way to Daarkenwyck—even as he had made his way to this small cabin for a reward. Charity had little doubt but that the patroon would pay a good price to get her back, even if only to humiliate her.
To her surprise and unease she heard Bart say that since the weather was so comfortable he would sleep in the lean-to beside the cabin on the hay, rather than “crowd the cabin.” She hoped Ben would latch the door securely before going to bed, but she could not be sure he did. At every sound she tensed, expecting to hear sounds of fighting erupt from below.
Somehow the night passed.
Morning found her heavy-eyed and not anxious to rise. Ben had taken care of the baby through the night and she felt she must get up at last. When finally she did, she could smell meat cooking and realized Ben was getting breakfast. Contrite that she had left him to do her chores, she hurried down and saw Bart sitting calmly at the rude wooden table considering her.
Ben was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is Ben?” she gasped, and Bart laughed.
“Ben’s getting water,” he said. “It gives us a chance to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about,” said Charity, edging toward the door.
“I say we have,” said Bart, his face clouding. “You were angry that I was going to take money from the trappers for you, weren’t you? Didn’t you know it was only a ruse? Twould have been only for a night or two I’d have left you with them. I meant to trick them and we’d have been long gone on some river boat or schooner before they found out.”
“I want nothing from you, Bart,” she said in a cold voice, “except never to see your face again.”
His eyes narrowed, and she could see his mouth turn down through his heavy unkempt black beard. She noted with distaste his buckskin clothes.
“Ah, now that’s no way to talk to me, Charity,” he wheedled. “After all, didn’t I save you and bring you to New York on a wagon?”
“You were saving your own skin as well,” she corrected him. “And having a woman on the wagon beside you made you safer—everyone we passed assumed I was your wife going in with you to market.”
“I see you’ve grown wiser,” he said in a nasty tone. “You’ll be sorry you spoke that way to old Bart!”
Angrily, Charity flounced away from him as Ben entered the room carrying two buckets of water. He set the buckets down and spoke to Charity. “Breakfast is ready.”
“I’m—not hungry,” said Charity, hating to sit down with Bart.
“Come, thou must eat or wilt lose thy strength and be of no help to me,” remonstrated Ben.
Meekly Charity sat down and the three of them ate a silent breakfast, listening to a noisy jay outside perched on a limb of the big sycamore that overshadowed the cabin.
After breakfast Bart announced he must leave and Ben, thanking him again for bringing that sad message about Rachel, pressed on him a florin.
Charity hated to see him do it. Bart might decide that Ben had money hidden away—which she was sure he had not—and come back someday and bushwhack him. She said as much to Ben after Bart had gone whistling off.
Charity had planned to pick some more berries for their dinner. “Wait a bit,” advised Ben, showing no interest in going out to chop wood or clear away trees today.
After a while, he instructed her to, “Stay in the house and keep the door and window shutters barred,” and went away. She wondered what he was going to do. But just then Letty started crying and she took the child in her arms and soothed her gently. Poor little Letty, all hope of her mother’s return now seemed gone. She must grow up motherless in a wild raw world.
Ben returned shortly, and she unbarred the door to let him in.
“Our guest is gone,” he reported. “I followed his tracks a long way and they did not falter. He is heading toward the river.”
Charity breathed a sigh of relief. Tracks! Of course, why hadn’t she thought of that? A man’s tracks told where he had been, and pointed the direction he was going. But she was still uneasy that Bart might ask questions along the river and perhaps learn that the patroon was searching for her. She knew she could not stay here too much longer. Going outside, she looked about her at the little space in the mighty virgin woodlands, hacked out at such great effort by the hand of one determined man, and she realized how fond of it she had become.
Red squirrels gamboled in the big oak that marked a corner of the clearing. Birds sang sweetly in the great sycamore that shaded the cabin and the air was fresh and clean. Even the thunderstorms that resounded through the Catskills seemed more hushed through the green protective walls of these giant trees.
She would miss it. And she would miss good gentle Ben and dear little Letty.
Feeling sad, she headed for the clearing to pick more berries for their dinner. Bart’s advent had left them with none for dinner and they were at their ripest; she had seen many more ripe ones than she had picked. She told Ben what she was going to do and sauntered off through the trees, intending to fill her basket and come right back.
She had picked only a few when she heard a crashing in the undergrowth behind her and, fearing bears, turned in fright.
What she saw frightened her even more.
Bart, a nasty smile on his face, was walking toward her.
She turned in panic, spilling the berries to the ground, and began to run. Bart caught her easily and she screamed once before he slapped his hand over her mouth and bore her to the ground.
“I doubled back,” he said. “Did you think I’d leave you here?”
She made an inarticulate protest against his hand.
“Now are you going to come with me nice? Or is it going to be some other way?” he asked grimly. “Because either way, you’re coming along, Charity. You and me together. I’ll set us up in some inn near the waterfront, and you can entertain a couple of sailors during the evening—I’ll find ’em for you—and then you and me’ll go to bed just like married folks. You’ll see how easy it is!”
For answer she struck him in the face.
The change in his expression terrified her. His face took on a dark ugly hue and his big hand pressed down over her throat and stopped her breathing. “Still high and mighty?” he said. And brought his other hand down in a heavy slap along the side of her face that made her head ring. Above her, the trees seemed to sway crazily as she felt herself slipping toward unconsciousness.
But he moved his hand from her throat so that she could again take a gasping breath and looked down at her. In terror she looked away from those dark evil eyes so close to her own, and a scream rose in her throat.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” he said, and slapped her again. This time her head lolled and she made no attempt to scream, but only looked up at him, blinded by pain.
“That’s better,” he growled. “You’re going to act respectful toward me, Charity. You’re going to do what I say. And don’t think you can be calling for Ben. He’s nowhere near. I saw him take his musket and head out in the other direction after you left—I was watching the cabin and saw him go.” He looked down at her, lying on the groun
d and said, “You’re a tasty wench, Charity, I’ve half a mind to enjoy you right now.”
She moaned.
A twig snapped and Ben’s voice said, “Let her go, and be gone thyself.”
Bart jumped up, and Charity lifted her head to see Ben standing a few feet away, armed with his musket. His square honest face was pale under its tan and he had the musket pointed right at Bart.
Bart sneered. “She’s mine,” he said. “She was mine before. Even though she’s living with you now. And I mean to take her back with me.”
“It’s not true,” croaked Charity. “I was never his.”
“Get you gone,” said Ben, his voice shaking. “And do not speak her name again.”
Bart was edging toward his own gun, which lay on the ground nearby. “You’re a Quaker,” he cried tauntingly. “Your faith won’t let you take a life!”
Oh, God, that was true! Charity sat up, her head now a little clearer.
“Tempt me not too far,” cried Ben. Then sharply, “Thou’lt go without thy musket!”
Heedless, Bart made a sudden grab for his musket and Ben’s long gun spoke. With a startled cry, Bart fell to the ground clutching his chest and lay on his back, holding the wound, blood gushing from between his fingers. As they both watched, transfixed, his head lolled suddenly and his wide staring eyes took on a glaze.
Ben groaned. “I have killed him,” he said in horror. “I have taken a life.”
Charity scrambled up, alarmed at the torment on his face. “You couldn’t help it, Ben,” she cried. “He’d have killed you if he’d been able to reach his gun.”
“Nay,” he cried wildly. “I meant to kill him! Why did I not shoot him in the arm? Or the leg? I had started off hunting, meaning to find us a fat turkey for our dinner, but I heard thee scream—faintly, in the distance. I hurried toward the sound and when I saw thee lying on the ground—no, no, I meant to kill him!” He flung away in such anguish that Charity hurried after him in alarm, but he outdistanced her. When she reached the cabin she found him bent over the table, his head in his arms—and he was not to be comforted.
“I must tell the authorities,” he said in a tired voice, looking up at her at last. “I have murdered a man.”
“And leave your child and me here alone?” cried Charity, aghast.
Horror filled his eyes as that sank in on him.
“Oh, God!” he cried, and his head fell back upon the table and his shoulders shook.
Charity considered him silently. Bart had been an evil man, and his death—no matter who had contrived it—should not be allowed to drag this good man down. Suddenly an idea came to her. Taking the bucket as if she were going for water, she left the cabin. When she reached the shelter of the trees, she picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could back to the berrying place where Bart’s body lay.
She stopped as she reached his side. He lay very still, his glazed eyes staring up unblinkingly at a sun that he would never see again.
Gritting her teeth, she picked up his musket and wedged it under his belt. Then, seizing his boots, she dragged him along over the rocky ground. She remembered a tiny cave she had found while berrying. It was hardly more than a deep crevice in the rocks, but she dragged Bart’s body there.
As she pulled him along she thought of the florin. Ben needed his florins. With a shudder she felt for Bart’s money pouch, found it, fastened by a rawhide thong to his belt, and put it into a pocket of her apron. Removing his boots, she pushed Bart’s body into the crevice, and rolled heavy rocks to cover the entrance. Then, she piled brush up around it. Having done that, she obliterated the signs of dragging as well as she could, and went back to the dried pool of blood that was now attracting flies. There, she put on Bart’s boots, which were huge and awkward for her, picked up as heavy a stone as she could carry so that the footprints would be impressed heavier into the soft earth, and made her way down to the stream that ran nearby. Taking her own shoes from her apron pockets, she sat down by the stream to put them on again. On her way back to the cabin she threw Bart’s boots into a deep thicket.
When she got back, carrying her bucket of water, Ben roused himself wearily.
“I have been waiting for thee,” he said in a dull voice. “What took thee so long?”
“I had much to think on,” said Charity wearily. “I sat by the stream and realized that I have brought all this upon you. If I had not come here—”
He gave her a long sad look. “Nay, thou must not feel so, Charity. Thou hast lightened my life. Were it not for thee, I would not have found these last weeks bearable, knowing my Rachel gone.” He rose. “I must go to bury the man I have killed. Since I cannot leave thee and the baby alone here to die, I must carry this black deed forever on my conscience.”
“I’ll go with you,” offered Charity, rising.
“No, do thou stay. I can do it readily without thee.”
“You will need help,” she insisted and accompanied him as they retraced their steps through the forest to the place where the berries grew.
“He is gone!” she cried when they reached the spot.
“Some animal has dragged his body away,” Ben muttered. “I should have come back sooner.”
“No,” pointed out Charity excitedly. “Look—here are his footprints. You did not kill him after all!”
“Impossible,” objected Ben. “Thou didst see him. The man was dead.”
“Maybe he was able to get up and staggered a little way. We should try to find him, Ben. Perhaps we will be able to save his life.”
Ben brightened. He began to follow the footprints until they reached the little stream. He frowned and followed the banks of the stream up and down on both sides for a while. “There are no other footprints,” he reported. “Yet he was grievously hurt.”
“But not so grievously hurt that he did not get up and walk away,” Charity retorted grimly. “Do you not see, Ben? Bart feared that you would follow him and kill him! It is what he would have done in your place. So, he is probably finding his way back to the river now. He has even taken his musket.”
“That is so,” agreed Ben thoughtfully. “The musket is gone.”
“We must get back,” she said hastily. “We have left the baby and it is growing dark. I am afraid to be in the cabin alone after dark. There is no point lingering here, Ben. The man is gone. And although he is dangerous, I think that you have managed to frighten him away so that he will not be back to trouble us.”
Ben gave her a confused look. She knew he was thinking that he had not actually bent over and inspected Bart’s body. But he had seen that look of death spreading over his face and known it for what it was—and turned, sickened by his deed, and strode off toward the house. Now he was unsure. He told himself that his bullet must have struck lower. Or higher. That Bart had not been so badly hurt after all if he could get up and stagger away.
“He must have gone a long way sloshing down the stream, Ben, afraid you would track him and catch up to him,” she added anxiously.
“Yes,” said Ben, his taut face clearing a bit. “That must be the way of it.”
Together, in silence, they walked among the great boles of the trees back to the house, and Charity looked up at the leafy roof above their heads and knew that she had done the right thing. Now Ben would not go flying off to the law to be punished for murder. He would soon forget that he had ever lifted his hand against one of his fellows.
She smiled at him, and touched his arm comfortingly. He sighed and then gave her a grave slow smile.
Yes, she told herself, she had done the right thing.
As Charity prepared dinner, she could see Ben through the window standing at the edge of the clearing peering into the trees. She knew he was brooding over the loss of Rachel.
He was very silent at dinner and she soon went up to bed, thinking not to disturb him in his grief.
She awoke to the sound of the baby giving a little cry, and crept down to see that his bed was empty. As she cra
dled Letty, soothing her, lulling her to sleep, she could see Ben kneeling in the clearing in the moonlight, clad only in his nightshirt, his body rocking, his head in his hands.
Such grief moved her. She put the baby gently back into the crib and tiptoed out onto the moonlit patch of ground Ben had cleared with such back-breaking effort. He was kneeling almost in the shadow of the huge old sycamore that shaded the cabin.
“Ben,” she said softly, “do not grieve so.”
He started at the sound of her voice, and shivered at the touch of her fingers as she patted his shoulder.
“She will not come back,” he muttered brokenly. “I had held onto hope all these weeks, but now—they have not seen her at the Indian slave market in the north. It was my last hope. She will never come back. I will never see her again.”
Charity knew it was true. The chances of life for a white woman on forced marches with the Indians were slim at best; a few were bought back at the market and some even returned to their homes by way of the French trappers—they were the lucky ones. Ben’s Rachel had not been so lucky.
“Ben,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “What good will it do to mourn? Rachel wouldn’t wish that.”
He turned a tortured face toward her. “No, she wouldn’t. But how can I do anything else knowing my Rachel’s bones bleach somewhere beside a trail where the savages scalped her and left her to die?” Sobs shook him.
“Oh, Ben, Ben.” Charity sank down beside him on the ground and put her arms around him and cradled his face against her own. She had never felt so sorry for anyone as she felt for Ben at that moment. He had killed a man to save her, even though it went strongly against his beliefs, and now he was torn by a frenzy of grief. “Ben,” she soothed, stroking his hair.
He moved against her with a shuddering sigh, and she pressed his head wordlessly against her breast, stroking his cheek, feeling his face digging into her soft rounded breasts as she soothed him with little broken endearments much as she had soothed the baby a short while before.
“Ah, Charity, Charity!” It was a wild cry of grief, and Ben’s arms went round her and he held her fiercely. She looked tenderly down at that head, pressed against her breasts, and was filled with a wild sweet aching desire to comfort him. He had suffered so much—and part of it for her. And with that thought she loosened the ribbon that held her gown about the neck and moved a little, letting the gown slip down so that his cheek brushed against the softness of her naked breast.
This Loving Torment Page 24
