by Izzy James
Field reached for the musket stowed in the saddle. No surprises this time. Shoot first. He turned toward the road.
She had saved him. When he had a few minutes, he would have to think about what that meant. Right now, he was glad to feel her slight but solid, dirty form in his arms. A stiff tendril scratched his nose and made his eyes water.
“What is that in your hair?” Even mud streaks couldn’t coarsen the softness of the auburn curls that twined about his fingers as he attempted to brush out any further hindrances to his eyesight.
“Moss.”
“You could’ve gotten killed.”
“I was armed. You could’ve gotten killed.”
“You should’ve sent Samuel.”
“You couldn’t wait that long.”
9
Delany had thought that the first time she was in his arms they would be face to face dancing, not riding a horse in the dark of night while she was covered in swamp dirt. She sat up straight trying to maintain distance between them. The warmth of his body enticed her to relax into its comfort. To fit her back to his contours would soothe her bones, like a roaring fire warmed her scalp by filling strands of her hair with heat as it dried. Mud and moss had transformed her into a witch of the Dismal Swamp. Now she would have to pay the price. Wet through, Delany was beginning to freeze. Deep in her belly, shivers began to shudder through her limbs. What she would give to be in Molly Fleet’s kitchen in front of its large stone fireplace or sitting in a tub filled with hot water washing off the grime that was slowing drying into a tight skin.
Field slid his free arm around her waist and tugged her flat against his body. Heat surrounded her. She wriggled to create an inch or two between them and still retain his radiance.
“Be still.” His baritone slipped down her ear and quieted her protest as he covered her with the flaps of his coat. After half a mile of steady running while being held in his arms, her convulsions quieted to mere ripples and faded. Another half a mile, and they had cleared the woods and started down the road toward the twin bridges. Once they cleared the bridges, they would be in Molly’s kitchen within no more than an hour and a half, assuming, of course, that Josiah Philips had not heard of Field’s escape.
~*~
It wasn’t until he could see the glistening river that Field realized how far they had traveled. The first of two bridges lay in front of them. His impulse was to risk the noise and bound over them. Instead, he slowed. The moon was high. Tiny fists of clouds still shivered in its cold light and had not coalesced into a bank to cover them as they walked across the exposed bridge.
A black man as tall as the withers of the draft they were riding came out of the woods waving his hands above his head. Delany recoiled into his chest before resuming her stiffened back. Field took hold of Delany’s blunderbuss and pointed it at the man, hand on the trigger.
“Miss Delany? That you in there?” the man called out in a coarse whisper.
Delany put her hand on Field’s and lowered the gun as she peered out around the collar of his great coat. “Wiley?”
The man let out a breath and raised his face to the sky. “Thank You, Jesus.” Turning back to them he said, “Miss Delany, Mr. Samuel told me you was in trouble. I guess he reckoned I would come and find you while he took care of the folks that’s showed up at his place.”
“Wiley,” Delany separated herself from Field and sat forward in the saddle.
Field resumed control of the gun.
“Thank God, you’ve come.” She reached out for Wiley’s hand. When he took it, she continued. “We’ve got to get to Samuel’s.”
“Shhhh.” Wiley put a finger to his lips. “Miss Delany, there’s bad folks out tonight. I seent them down on the river.” He pointed toward the bridge. “Come with me.” He pointed to the copse of trees just before the small clearing that led to the bridge.
Still mounted, hand on the trigger, Field directed the horse to follow Wiley into the darkness under the trees.
“Why do you trust this man?” he whispered.
“Because he’s my friend,” she whispered back.
“More than that,” Wiley answered. “But that’s a story for another day. I will always come for Miss Delany.” Wiley reached for a sack sitting on the ground. “Now, we got to still those hoofs.”
Delany moved to dismount.
Field held her in place.
She turned to face him in the saddle. He couldn’t see the flash in her silver eyes in the darkness, but he could feel the challenge. She pulled her blunderbuss out of his grasp. “What choice do you have?” Her breath slid across his lips. A stray piece of moss scraped across his face as she slid down the saddle to the ground. He pulled the rifle out of the saddle sheath and dismounted.
Wiley sorted through a pile of rags he had pulled from the sack.
Delany reached for one and headed for a leg.
A series of whistles pierced the trees.
Delany and Wiley froze.
Field barely breathed.
Boats thumped. Oars clattered. Muffled curses were too far away to be distinguishable on this branch of the river.
He resumed breathing and stepped out from the trees headed toward the tall grasses leaning over the river bank. The bridge lay fifty feet in front of them at the end of the road. Morris’s Inn sat dark on the stump of land perched between the two branches of the river. The carriage yard lay shadow-less in the moonlight. The men down below began to shout at each other. He recognized Josiah Philips. Still too far away to hear exactly what was said, the timbre of the voice was unmistakable.
They would have to go quickly.
Field returned to the trees to find the hooves had been wrapped.
Delany had transformed herself again, her hair tied up in a kerchief, no doubt from Wiley’s bag. Face still pale from dried mud, she was a different woman.
Wiley stuffed the remaining rags into his sack. He took his position at the horse’s head on the right. He motioned to Field to stay on the right side. Delany climbed up and threw herself across the saddle on her stomach.
Delany dead. Even the pretense made him downright uncomfortable. He’d felt better after he’d actually been punched in the gut. It was a good disguise, but he was not fooled. In this light, Delany didn’t look like a dead slave. The curve of her neck was too supple. The turn of her elbow too delicate.
“No one will believe this twice in the same night.”
She angled up to face him and said, “They will.”
Her certainty astounded him.
“They shan’t. It’s too preposterous.”
“People believe all sorts of preposterous things, Field Archer.”
“I cannot let you—shall not let you—go through with this. We don’t know who that is down there.”
“What—ˮ
“I don’t want to hear ‘what choice do you have?’”
She sat up in the saddle, silver eyes blazing.
“Turn around, legs to that side,” he pointed to the side most visible to the men on the river. She grinned at him before she rotated and hung down once again. How could she possibly enjoy herself? They could all be killed.
The mud caked on her dangling limbs helped. Field prayed it would be enough. There were at least ten men down there, and evil rowed with them.
He searched the saddle for Ben’s powder and shot bag and placed them in his coat. Holding the rifle in parallel with his left leg, he was ready.
Wiley rounded his tall height and shoulders into submission.
They walked to the bridge.
Field paced his steps with Wiley. Fifteen steps took them to the inn yard. They moved swiftly across the yard toward the second bridge. The shouts got louder. A pistol cracked. The horse snuffled and took a step back.
“Whatchu doin’ there, boy?” a voice yelled from below.
Wiley kept his head down and kept walking.
“Keep your eyes on what you’re doing,” Philips’ voice menaced. “He’s
carrying his dead.”
Field itched to peek down the river but didn’t dare risk Delany’s exposure. He caught a tremor out of the corner of his eye. She was beginning to shiver. He took her hand. She grabbed on and held hard. Field let out the breath he’d been holding once his feet reached the sandy bank of the road.
“I thought that might be you, Mrs. Fleet.” Josiah Philips stood on the road. Alone this time, hands in his pockets. “Mr. Archer.” He nodded his head.
Field looked down the sights of his rifle and moved to stand in front of the horse.
“Move now.”
“No need to be so hostile, Mr. Archer. I’ll not detain you again this evening. As you can see, I am occupied with my own affairs at the moment.” Philips gestured toward the river.
Field didn’t flinch.
“I merely came up so that you wouldn’t think I was quite so stupid as to think that the beautiful Mrs. Fleet was a slave.” His face coiled into a grin. “My men might be fanciful, but I’m not.” He stood aside with a wave of his arm to let them pass.
Field kept his rifle aimed at Philips as they passed but couldn’t stop the ball that flew from Philips pistol into Wiley. Field returned fire, but Philips slipped into the woods.
Wiley began to run, pulling the horse along with him. Blood was running from the wound in his shoulder.
They ran at least a mile before they stopped.
Delany slid off of the horse.
Wiley shook his head.
“Don’t argue with me, Wiley,” Delany commanded.
“It don’t hurt that bad, Ms. Delany.” He looked at Field for support.
“What choice do you have?” Field responded.
Wiley climbed up into the saddle.
“You get up there, too.” Field ordered.
“No. I’m freezing, and a little walk will do me good.”
He couldn’t argue with that. The night was getting even colder.
10
The lights in Molly’s kitchen and house sang peace into the night. The moon silvered the tall birches in the yard.
Delany stumbled in relief as she approached the house. Her spirit whispered, home.
“They’re here!” Ben’s voice carried out to her, and her eyes filled with tears. Ben was here in the warmth and care of his parents. He was safe. She wiped the tear that fell when the door opened, and Ben ran down the steps.
Sarah banged the door back open when Ben dropped it, and Samuel and Molly came out right behind her.
“Aunt Delany!” He collided with her and folded her into his arms. Home. He stepped back and took a look. “You’re crunchy. Did you fall into the swamp?”
“I’m filthy. You better tell Mary to make up a tub.”
“Mary’s in bed. I’ll tell Betsy.”
“No. Tell Betsy to come here. I’ve another job for her.”
He ran back to the house.
Delany turned back to Wiley and Archer.
Wiley had dismounted and stood without assistance holding his shoulder.
“Freewill.” A tiny black woman stood at the door of the kitchen peering into the darkness. “Freewill, is that you?”
“Betsy.” The call in his voice was for none but her.
She flew down the porch to his side.
“I’m hurt.”
She reached up to the tall man and held him in her arms. “Come with me.”
They walked into the house moved by the love between them.
Delany was mesmerized by the feeling that she had come home.
Molly reached out and took Delany’s hand. Sarah took the other one.
“Your hands are like stones. Let’s get you inside.” Molly rubbed Delany’s fingers with her own warm hands.
“Did she just call him Freewill?”
~*~
Field creaked into the dining room behind Samuel. He didn’t know when he’d been this tired or sore. Blisters the size of shillings were rising on his heels.
A large cherry wood table sat in the center of the room laden with platters of cold chicken, beef, and ham, a plate of bread, and a large bowl of apples. It was all he could do to keep his hand out of the bread plate and sit down in the seat offered. Across the table, in front of a small fireplace, sat Mrs. Harrison.
“Please, help yourself.” Molly stood to hand him a plate from a stack sitting on the sideboard. “You must be famished.”
“I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I entered this room.” He was astonished that this was the truth. The last time he had thought of food was the tempting chokeberries by the side of the woods this morning. What a day. He helped himself to ham, beef, and a thick slice of bread. Robert brought a tumbler of dandelion tea. How appropriate. His favorite flower here to welcome him back from the most singular episode in his life to date. He silently said thanks to the Lord for sending Delany and for the dandelion tea.
Midway through his second mouthful of beef, beef that Mary would have a hard time besting, Delany entered the room. She was covered from throat to toe in a dressing gown of lavender trimmed in white lace. Her auburn hair, released from its knot and swamp debris, shimmered in the candlelight.
A remarkable woman. He had not seen her like in all his travels. Riding together left an imprint of her small frame in the circle of his embrace. How could so small a person in stature be brave enough to come after him when faced with an adversary as evil as Josiah Philips?
“Delany, sit by the fire.” Molly directed from her seat next to her husband.
Mrs. Harrison tapped the seat cushion next to herself.
Delany shuffled to the offered seat directly across from him, her back to the fire. She looked at him and gave a sleepy smile that said, “We made it.”
He smiled back. We did.
Five minutes later, a bandaged Wiley came in with Betsy. They took seats at the foot of the table.
Field passed the meat. Delany cast her sharp silver eyes at him with a question in their depths. Irritation rose. Did she think that he didn’t know how to repay a debt of honor? In life, exceptions were always in order. Wiley had saved his life. More to the point, he had saved Delany’s life. For that he would sit and eat with the man anywhere, anytime.
“Tell us what happened out there,” Samuel said after the plates had been emptied the first time.
Delany related the events of the day in her straightforward way. The light twinkled in her hair jumping from tendril to tendril. Her eyes sparkled as she related the tale of the appearance of the Witch of Pungo.
Samuel laughed at her telling.
She was still laughing when she told of their harrowing escape across the bridge.
“It was hardly a laughing matter.” the admonishment came unbidden from Field’s mouth.
“It was our great escape,” she teased. Her eyes flashed a silver challenge.
“You could have been killed. Wiley was shot.”
Wiley looked up from his plate.
“It was a miracle of deliverance as sure as we are sitting around this table.” Her smile disappeared as she drummed the table with her finger. “The joy I feel when a prayer is answered is no laughing matter, Mr. Archer.”
“If it was a miracle, and I am not ready to debate the question”—he took a breath—“miracles are not to be declared or treated flippantly, Mrs. Fleet.”
She quieted, but he knew she wasn’t done. Not if what blossomed her cheeks was anger. The past two weeks had taught him something of Delany Fleet. He was confident that it wasn’t embarrassment. He grinned at her and turned to Samuel. “How long has smuggling been going on down at Moore’s?”
“Probably since there’s been a colony,” Samuel responded from a relaxed position at the head of the table.
Samuel looked like his brother Tom, but so far, he appeared a very different type of man. The word Field used to describe Tom was hungry. Hungry for wealth. Hungry for power. Hungry for what he didn’t have. Grasping. His brother was intelligent, confident, content. Sure of his place
and content with it.
“It was Josiah Philips,” Wiley injected from the end of the table.
“So now we know for sure,” Samuel said as he sat up straight and leaned his elbows on the table. “We’ve known about smuggling down there for years. But it’s been intermittent. Lately there’s been an increase in activity. We weren’t sure who was behind it.”
“Philips?” Field asked.
“If that’s who you saw, then that’s who it is.” Samuel took a sip from his glass. “I think there’s more to it. Philips is a bad man, but he doesn’t have the ability to plan like that.”
“Someone else, then.”
“Someone else directing and planning. I think so.”
11
Delany awoke in her brother-in-law’s house without the faintest idea of how she got to bed. Peace infused the house. She snuggled down in the covers and let the warm glow hug her heart hard. She would need it for the days ahead.
They had gotten this far. Ben was safe at home. Sarah’s son would come and get her today. Then she and Field would set off for Williamsburg to deliver the rifles. The sight of Field captured by the fire in the clearing swept across her vision. She’d never been so scared in all her life and never so sure that she was doing the right thing, except for freeing Wiley and George. She glowed a deep thank you up to the Lord rather than say the words in a prayer. She felt His peace in response.
Delany threw back the covers and swung her feet onto the cold floor. The leaves on the maple tree outside her window were fringed in yellow and red.
Home. She never thought of Fleet farm as home. It was the home of her indenture when she visited as a girl. She’d lived most of her life in Norfolk. It wasn’t clear when her father’s dream of a farm in Northumberland had become her own dream.
Arriving last night to the glow of the kitchen and the arms of Molly and Ben hit her hard. The feeling of arriving home was unique. She had never felt it before. Not even returning to the Norfolk house after a long sales trip. What does it mean, Lord? Please make it plain so I may walk the right path.
Tom’s house. She hadn’t ever given it much thought. Thomas Fleet, her father-in-law, had built two houses at Fleet farm: one for each of his sons. Built just a mile and a half apart, Tom’s house was the same as Samuel’s. It didn’t suit Tom to be so far from the city. “Too far from the action,” he’d say. Samuel and Molly used it as a guest house when their house was full. They had plenty of room to accommodate their current company. Most likely Tom’s house was empty. Tom’s house.
