by Grace Walton
“What?” Jess stammered. “This captain is in the Port Wentworth gaol? Why?”
“He killed a man two months ago in a tavern. His trial was last month. He was acquitted on the grounds of self-defense. But he wasn’t released. He can’t quit the gaol until all the debt his crew has run up in town has been paid. And I don’t believe he’ll be able to pay until he gets the gold I’ll send with you for your passage. The gazette said Captain McLeod lost the price of the whole cargo in a game of chance. It seems he questioned the honesty of the men he was playing cards with. That precipitated a most unruly brawl,” she explained patiently.
“A brawl?” Jess asked weakly.
“Jessamine, please pay attention to what I am telling you. It is very important information. Now remember, I’ve told you Captain McLeod killed a man in the tavern. You do remember that part, I trust?” It was as if she was instructing a backward child.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Captain McLeod accused the man of cheating. That’s what started the fight.”
“Yes, Mother.” Jess nodded, trying hard to focus. But her mind was reeling. There was too much to think about. “Did the captain kill the man during the fight? The one who cheated him?”
“Now Jess, we must not judge. No one knows for sure if the poor man really was a cheat. Though of course, that is most likely the case. Frontier justice is harsh and swift. If Captain McLeod was right, about the cheating, no one would fault him for taking matters into his own hands, so to speak. I’m sure the trial was a mere formality,” Mother Marguerite Marie commented.
“But someone died?”
“Oh, certainly, there can be no question that the poor man is dead. And we must certainly pray for his soul. The newspaper said Captain McLeod unfortunately killed him.” The nun automatically corrected herself, “As I remember the newspaper’s account, it read that Captain McLeod defended himself from an unwarranted attack. Yes.” She nodded, pleased with her memory. “That’s it, an unwarranted attack.”
“I’ve got to get this man, this Captain McLeod, out of gaol?” Jess asked in disbelief.
“Yes, dear. But don’t worry. I’ve explained everything to him in my letter.” The little old woman headed toward the door to leave. “Once he reads it, he’ll see how practical my plan is.”
“Another letter, Mother?” It was no more than a whisper.
“Yes, the one for Captain McLeod I’m giving you to take along with the gold,” the nun answered pragmatically.
Jessamine St. John sat in stunned silence. She was about to embark on a journey in which she would be called upon to depend on a stranger. Not just a stranger, she silently corrected herself. A stranger who had recently spent time incarcerated because he’d killed another human being. Aunt Dorcas would have a hissy fit if she knew the details. Her brothers would have her locked in her room for the rest of her natural life for even considering doing something so dangerous and reckless. But she had no options. God had a divine plan for her life and it seemed this was how it was to start. Jess slowly slid off the bed. She began to pray what had become her personal litany. It was a prayer of Ignatius of Loyola. In a shaky whisper she prayed aloud.
“Teach me, good Lord to serve you as you deserve; to give and not count the cost; to fight and not heed the wounds; to toil and not seek for rest; to labor and not ask for any reward; except that of knowing that I do your will; through Jesus Christ my Lord, Amen.”
By the end of her prayer, Mother Marguerite Marie had joined her. The girl felt Mother’s hand perch atop Jess’s pesky sliding wimple as the old woman began to pray, “Precious Lord Jesus, please protect your servant Jessamine. Give her wisdom and strength to do your blessed will. And Lord, bless Captain McLeod. Draw him nigh unto you.”
Chapter 3
The, forest was a dark, tangled maze of vines and briars punctuated sporadically by patches of fierce light where the sun was able to fight its way through the dense leafy canopy above. Insects buzzed persistently around the plodding horses. As the day progressed, the air became more and more damp and humid. Autumn in Virginia was nothing like autumn in Ireland. Any fool knew that fact, and the old woman was no fool. Dorcas’s memories of Ireland were rather hazy now. Too many years had passed since she’d left its green and fertile loveliness to make a new life in an unknown land.
Dorcas Moore had been just a young colleen. The ship made landfall in America during the fall, all those years ago. She’d been a sweet miss of but fourteen. Frightened by the stories she’d heard about savages and raw, rough living conditions. What she’d found surprised her. Virginia was as sophisticated as Dublin. Fine manor houses dotted the landscape and the latest fashions were paraded up and down the wide, clean streets of Williamsburg. Erudite men spoke out against tyranny regularly and society was as tonnish as could be imagined anywhere in civilized Europe. She’d loved it. She’d adored everything about it. Well, everything except the weather and the insects. Dorcas blew at a fly buzzing near the brim of an extravagant bonnet Dylan had sent her at Christmastide. Virginia weather could be beastly, like today, she fumed.
Here it was, the second week of September and she was sweating. Not mildly perspiring mind you, or even dewing as proper ladies should. Dorcas Moore was sweating. They’d been on these smelly animals since dawn. Jess had insisted. Dorcas sighed and pushed a wet grey curl away from her neck. Jess always insisted, the older woman thought darkly. Her niece was convinced they could make town before nightfall. Dorcas wasn’t so sure. And she was tired of following the hindquarters of Jess’s horse as it bobbed up and down like a lazy row boat on an equally lazy bay.
“Jess?” Dorcas called out mildly. There was no answer, so she tried again. “Jess?” The word was louder, but still carefully modulated. Silence fell once more. Dorcas felt her mood sour before she snapped at the girl ahead of her. “Jessamine St. John, I am speaking to you.”
Jess turned in her sidesaddle. She answered with an air of distraction, “What is it, Aunt Dorcas?”
“I’d like to stop for a few moments.” The older woman pulled back heavily on the reins of her sleepy horse. It lumbered to a slow stop.
“If we stop now, we’ll not make Port Wentworth by dark,” the girl explained patiently.
Her aunt had been complaining off and on all day. Aunt Dorcas did not like traveling, not even in the extravagant town coach Dylan bought them three years ago. It was padded and cushioned inside like an invalid’s chair. Still Dorcas didn’t like to travel. And, her aunt considered going any distance on horseback a sacrifice of monumental proportions.
“If we were riding the winners of this year’s Derby, we would still not make town before nightfall,” the older woman grouched. “Especially since you decided to lead us on this mad chase through the brambles. Jess, we pay an exorbitant amount of taxes just so we can have nice, safe, comfortable roads and then you choose not to use them. It doesn’t make sense, child. We should be on a well-traveled road, not here in the depths of the woods. We’re probably lost. And if we’re not, I think we must be near one of your brothers’ plantations. The way Connor keeps buying land, surely one is close. I say let’s get to a village and find out. We could stop, rest overnight, and get some decent clothing.” She eyed the black habit Jess wore. “You can’t go to London dressed as a crow, girlie.”
“Aunt Dorcas, we’ve had this conversation several times today already. I’m wearing my habit. And we are not stopping until we reach Port Wentworth. I need to get this message to London as soon as possible,” she said with a stubborn tilt of her chin.
“Fine, fine,” Dorcas agreed, sitting straighter in the saddle to stretch her aching back. “But one night will not ruin your speed. We will be on the cursed boat for at least two months. One night spent in a bed instead of on the hard, damp ground won’t harm us, I’m thinking.”
The man Mother Marguerite Marie had hired to lead their pack horse nodded in silent agreement. He hadn’t said much the whole day. He’d sat slouched on his skinny
horse, one grimy fist knotted in the reins and the other gripping their pack horse’s lead line. His stringy, matted hair was halfway hidden by an old greasy hat he’d jammed onto his head. Neither woman wanted to get close enough to make a thorough inspection of him. A reeking odor of unwashed body drifted from his person. They had left him strictly alone. But now he spoke.
“Mizzus Moore, I’m with you. We bettah find some place to light for the night. It’s gonna come a storm along about dark.” He squinted up at the sky through a hole in the trees.
“That’s ridiculous,” scoffed Jess looking up too. “The sky is blue. There’s not a cloud to be seen. We’re riding on.”
The wiry man slid down from his horse. He lifted the brim of his hat so she could see his eyes. They were mud-colored and made her nervous. “You go right on, ma’am. I’m going to rest these horses. Then find a place to bed down for the night.”
“You can’t do that,” the indignant girl sputtered. “You were hired to see us to Port Wentworth. You can’t quit when we’re almost there.”
“Ma’am, we are a right smart piece out of Port Wentworth. The sun is gonna set in a couple of hours. There’s no way to make it by dark. These horses have been going all day. They cain’t go no more. I’m stopping.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said defiantly. She kicked her horse into a trot. Dorcas watched her niece’s straight back disappear into the brush.
“You ain’t gonna follow her, ma’am?” he asked the old woman who was, even now, getting gingerly down from her horse.
“No, lad, I’m not.” She limped over to a fallen tree. She sat on the wide trunk. “She’ll be back soon. Even she’s not reckless enough to go off into the woods alone. As soon as she realizes I’m not following her, she’ll turn about. You’ll see.” With those words Dorcas settled more comfortably back against the tree trunk. “Could you reach into that pack and get something out for me, lad?”
“Surely.” he nodded, sending his stringy hair jumping. “What you want?”
Dorcas smiled broadly. “It’s a wee brown bottle, laddie boy. Something to revive our spirits, so to speak.”
The man returned her smile with a broken-toothed grin. He began rummaging through the pack tied securely to the horse’s back. Finding the nut-brown flask, he walked toward the resting woman. “Here tis, ma’am.”
Dorcas uncorked the little vessel. She took a dainty sip. Then she took another. With a smile she offered it to the man. “Won’t you be trying it too?” She held it up to him.
He didn’t hesitate. He tilted the bottle to his lips. His scrawny Adam’s apple jerked up and down as he swallowed. He smacked his lips and wiped his mouth on the back of a dirty sleeve. “That’s right good, ma’am, right good. What is it?. It don’t taste like what my Pa used to brew.”
“This, me boyo.” She patted the little bottle lovingly. “Is imported French brandy.” Dorcas took another sip, savoring the smoky taste of the liquor. “My nephew sends me a bottle every year, for medicinal purposes, of course.” She passed it back to him.
He took another long swig. “It’s got the kick of a mule to it.” He started giggling. “Don’t it?” His knees bent as he went down to sit beside her. Stretching long, skinny legs out, he handed the brandy back.
“Oh aye,” she agreed amicably. “My poor dead husband used to say brandy could heal a broken heart and cure the pox.”
“Do tell?” The man’s words were said slowly and carefully. “Can I have another taste, ma’am?” he wheedled.
Dorcas gave him a blinding smile and nodded. “Surely you can, boyo. Just let me take a wee sip first.” She upended the bottle and drank deeply. Unsteady hands passed it back to the hired man.
The bottle almost slipped to the ground before his fumbling fingers saved it, at the last possible second. “Ma’am?” he asked as he chugged the liquor down his gullet. “Ma’am?” His bleary eyes searched for her. Finally he found her. Dorcas was slumped sideways against the tree trunk snoring softly. “You asleep, ma’am?” When he didn’t get an answer, he shrugged and drained the last bit of liquor from the small bottle.
Lurching to his feet, he stumbled over to the weary horses and unsaddled them. Their heads were lowered in fatigue and they scarcely even nibbled at the fodder he gathered for them. Taking two musty blankets from his bedroll, he covered the sleeping old woman with one. Spreading out the other blanket on the grass, he lay down and rolled until he resembled a big lumpy cocoon. Without a few minutes, he fell asleep. Neither Dorcas nor the man gave the fleeing girl another thought.
Jess’s lips were clamped tight as she navigated the tired horse through the twilight. The woods became frightening at night. Shadows became demons. Wild animals prowled seeking food. Why hadn’t Dorcas caught up with her yet? The girl’s thoughts were worried. Her nerves were on edge. Where was her aunt? When she’d ridden off with such bravado, Jess had believed her aunt would be following close behind. Dorcas Moore was not the type of woman to let a young girl wander off into the forest by herself, especially not her own niece. Jess had counted on that. She didn’t want to be riding the rest of the way to Port Wentworth alone. Too much could happen to a solitary traveler, especially a woman. If Aunt Dorcas didn’t catch up with her soon, she’d have to turn back. Dylan would have her head on a platter if he ever found out she’d ridden off by herself.
A tremor of relief ran through her as she spotted a road through a clearing up ahead. She must be very close to a town, she assured herself. Easing her weary horse onto the wide path was comforting. She rode silently, listening for danger. Her brothers had told her stories of men who waylaid travelers on lonely roads like this one.
Ancient trees grew like an enveloping tent over the road. They blocked whatever weak moonlight might have been available. The sounds of the night were magnified by the menacing darkness. Every tiny creak of her saddle, every metallic clink of the horse’s bit against the leather reins, sounded loud. At the rise of a hill, the trees thinned. She could see, in the distance below, tiny lights. It must be Port Wentworth. She smelled the salty ocean air on a stagnant breeze. Because she was so busy searching out the horizon for the village, she failed to hear the sound of approaching hoof beats stamping on the narrow, packed clay road.
Two men were suddenly upon her. They slouched in the saddles of two wind-broken nags.
“Thomas, lookee at whut we has here,” one sneered before he sent a stream of filthy, brown tobacco juice onto the road in front of her horse. Jess’s mount snorted and threw its head up, frightened at the sudden movement so close to its vulnerable legs.
“It’s a woman.” Was the dull-witted answer. Jess could barely make out their silhouettes in the darkness. But she could see one of the men was skinny and the other one was fat.
The tall one spit again. He answered sourly, “O’ course it’s a woman you idjit. She ain’t a sea monster. She’s a woman.” He leered as he looked her up and down. Jess felt as if he’d stripped the very clothes from her body. “I hain’t had a woman in two weeks.” He eyed her speculatively.
“Horace, you ain’t had a woman in two years. Not since Miz Marshall at the sportin house told you not to evah come back. Least ways not til you had a bath. And, far as I know.” The fat one stopped to scratch his nose. “Far as I know, you still ain’t took no bath.” His voice was a droning whine.
“Shut up you idjit. If I say I had a woman two weeks gone, I did.” He puffed out his narrow chest and dared his friend to contradict him. He fixed his eye back on the girl across from them.
Jess spent the time they argued weighing her options. Should she run or put up a fight? Dylan had taught her how to fend off a man’s unwanted attentions, if she ever found herself importuned in a ballroom, when she was twelve. Connor had taught her how to use her knee to disarm a man, if she was ever accosted in the street when she was fourteen. And Griffin had taught her how to kill a man with the heel of her hand when she was sixteen, in the event one ever caught her alone. She knew how
to do all these things, but only in theory. Her protective brothers had never let her venture out by herself. She’d always had one of them, or her aunt, and an armed escort. Jess complained long and hard about Jed, the massive black man her brothers hired to protect both she and Aunt Dorcas. But right now, she was wishing she hadn’t sent him back to the Richmond plantation. He’d argued, but she’d prevailed. A body guard had not been appropriate at St. Cecelia’s. Well, she told herself ruefully, Jed’s help would be very appropriate in her current situation.
So what was she going to do? The girl’s first impulse was to run. Her mare looked to be of a much better caliber of horseflesh than the robbers’ horses. The animal had a fair chance of outrunning the bandits, no matter how tired and worn she might be. But none of the techniques Jess’s big brothers had taught her would work on horseback. A lady couldn’t very well invite the men to dismount so she could wreak havoc on their persons. So, Jess decided it must be a race for the village whose lights shone in the not-very-far distance.
Jess jerked the mare’s head toward the town below. She jammed her heels cruelly into the weary horse’s sides. The mare jumped in surprise. Her mistress never treated her so roughly. Even though the mount was weary, she summoned up enough strength to push into a canter. The two would-be robbers stopped their argument when they realized their prize had just loped off toward town. Blistering oaths peppered the air as they kicked and slapped their pitiful animals in hopes of catching up with Jess. The best they could summon from their horses was a bone-rattling trot. Even so off they went, in hot pursuit, cussing all the way.
“Horace, we ain’t never gone catch that woman on these here marsh-tackys,” whined the fat one. “Let’s us stop. This nag’s bony back is about to kill me.”
