Ride the Fire (Blakewell/Kenleigh Family Trilogy, #3)

by Pamela Clare

  “Take this.” Nicholas slowed his stallion, leaned toward her, handed her a strip of dried venison. “You need to keep up your strength.”

  She took the meat, though she had no appetite.

  But he was watching. “Eat, love. For Belle’s sake as well as your own.”

  She bit off a piece, chewed, watched the trees open to a wide blue sky as they reached the top of a rocky ridge. The June sunshine was bright and hot, and she found herself overlooking a lush valley, the rounded crowns of beech, maple, and oak like puffy green clouds floating below her. This was how birds saw the world, she realized.

  “You’re smiling.” His deep voice interrupted her daydream. “A penny for your thoughts?”

  Feeling foolish, she turned her head away, avoided his probing gaze. “I’ve never had a pennyworth of thoughts. Save your coin.”

  “I know that’s not true. You’re an intelligent woman, Bethie.”

  The tone of his voice was not mocking, but sincere, and she could not help but stare at him in amazement. A thick lump formed in her throat. She swallowed. “You’re a strange man, Nicholas.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” His teeth flashed white as he grinned. “So what made you smile?”

  “You’ll laugh. ’Tis nothin’.”

  “I willna laugh, lass.” He mimicked her brogue.

  “You’re a haggis-headed fool!” She shook her head, could not hold back her smile.

  “A . . . a what?” His handsome face took on a look of exaggerated indignation.

  She gestured to the valley below. “I was thinkin’ this is how birds see the world.”

  To her surprise, he didn’t laugh. Instead, he looked out over the valley, nodded, his lips curved in a gentle smile.

  Then, abruptly, his expression grew grim.

  She followed the direction of his gaze.

  A farmstead. But it wasn’t burnt down. Horses stood in the paddock. And tiny specks that were people went about their chores.

  “We must warn them.” She pointed Rosa downhill.

  Nicholas grasped her reins, stopped her. “There isn’t time.”

  “We cannae just ride off and leave them to die!”

  His voice took on a hard edge. “They knew what they were getting into when they came here, Bethie. War and slaughter are nothing new on the frontier. Either they’re prepared to defend themselves, or they’re not.”

  “How can one family defend itself against so many warriors? Do you no’ care if they die?”

  Her question was like a fist to his gut. “I’ve seen more death than you can imagine, Bethie. I’ve looked it in the face, slept with it, broken bread with it. Hell, I’ve been dead! The only person a man can save is himself.”

  “You’re no’ so coldhearted as that, Nicholas. You saved Belle and me.” She looked at him as if he were a knight in shining armor, her violet eyes imploring.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he’d never intended to get involved in her plight, that his feelings for her were an accident, that the last time he’d tried to save someone they had died in agony, cursing his name.

  He released her. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? There’s still plenty of time between here and Fort Pitt to die.”

  Silent tears slipped from her eyes, ran down her cheeks. She drew in a shaky breath. “Then we leave them to be butchered?”

  Bethie’s words lingered in the air, made him feel like a cold-blooded bastard.

  “Damn it!” He jerked Zeus’s reins, headed down the hill toward the cabin, certain he was making a terrible mistake.

  * * *

  It took longer to reach the cabin than Bethie had expected. It hadn’t seemed so far away from the hilltop. Only when they drew in sight of it did she remember how she was dressed. She’d gotten so used to wearing only her shift and Nicholas’s shirt that she’d forgotten to feel half naked. But the people who lived in this house were strangers. Not only that, her shift was travel-stained, her braid unkempt, her feet bare as an urchin’s.

  Nicholas reined in the stallion. “Stay here. Let me speak with them first.”

  She nodded.

  He had just urged Zeus forward again, when a voice rang out.

  “Stay where you are, you bloody heathen!” A wiry man with gray hair stepped out from behind the barn, a long rifle in his hands.

  Nicholas stopped. “I mean you no harm. I just stopped by to warn you about an Indian—”

  “To warn me about an Indian? You are an Indian!” The man peered from behind his rifle, squinted.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, my son Johnny here says you are.”

  “I’m no’ so sure now, Da’. He looks like a white man.” A boy of about eleven, all blond hair and freckles, peered out from behind his father.

  Despite the grimness of the situation, Bethie fought a smile.

  “That’s because I am a white man.” There was a strong note of irritation in Nicholas’s voice. “I’ve come to warn you there’s an Indian uprising under way. There are war parties attacking up and down the Ohio River Valley. We’ve passed a half-dozen massacred families in the past few days, didn’t want to see you become the next.”

  “I see only you, stranger. You said ‘we.’ Who’s with you?” The voice came from the other side of the barn, and a young man stepped forward. Apart from darker hair, he was a bigger version of his brother.

  Nicholas motioned Bethie to join him. “We were attacked about a week ago, burned out by a forest fire. We escaped to the river and are on our way to Fort Pitt.”

  She urged her mount forward, stopped beside Nicholas, tried not to care that the two boys stared at her.

  Their father squinted. “What is she wearin’?”

  “She no’ wearin’ much, Da’. And she’s got a wee bairn.”

  Bethie felt herself flush to the roots of her hair, was about to stammer something, when Nicholas spoke. “The fire happened at night. We fled with no warning and no time to prepare.”

  The father nodded in understanding. “Johnny, get indoors. Search the chest, see if your ma has somethin’ this poor lass can wear.”

  The boy shuffled past, casting Bethie shy glances.

  She didn’t realize how much she had missed another woman’s company until the man spoke of his wife. “You’re very kind. Are you sure she willna mind?”

  “Aye, lass, I’m sure. She died last spring.” The man gestured for them to dismount. “The name’s Magee—Donnie Magee. What’s mine is yours. Stop a while. Callum will tend your horses, and Johnny will have supper on soon.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “That’s very gracious of you, Master Magee, but I’m afraid we can’t stay, and neither can you. There’s a large party of Delaware headed this way.”

  Chapter 18

  The sun was just rising when they neared Fort Pitt. Nicholas found himself leading a ragged and weary band that included not only Magee and his boys—both of whom turned out to be capable backwoodsmen despite their youth—but two other families as well. They’d come across Ian Calhoun and his wife, Minna, in the wild, already fleeing with their three small children to the fort. The Wallace family had been asleep when Nicholas had sighted their cabin and roused them from their beds.

  It was next to impossible for a party that included seven horses and fifteen people, seven of whom were children, to move soundlessly through the forest and leave no tracks. Their only hope rested in speed. With the Delaware war party so close he could almost taste them, Nicholas had moved his saddle back to the stallion, riding with Bethie and Belle, while the remaining horses, including Rona and Rosa, each bore one child and one adult. Stopping only when Nicholas needed to scout ahead, they had alternated between a canter and a walk all night.

  Now the fort was visible upriver, its high earthen walls rising almost from the riverbank. He had already scouted the area and knew the cabins in the Upper Town and Lower Town around the fort had been burned to the ground, likely the work of so
ldiers determined not to give the enemy any place to take cover. The hilly forest on all sides was filled with encamped Delaware and Shawnee. Severe erosion showed that the river had run high against the ramparts during the spring freshet, but the Monongahela was now well within its banks.

  Which was good, because they were about to cross it.

  Nicholas had chosen a spot downriver from most of the Indian encampments but within sight of the walls. He wanted the soldiers to see them, to cover them with their long rifles as they crossed the deep water and rode for the gates. Shingiss, leader of the Delaware, was likely too smart a tactician to slaughter women and children within full view of British soldiers. But Nicholas didn’t want to take a chance. They needed to get across the river quickly, come under the protection of the fort’s artillery and marksmen before anyone could attack.

  “We’ll cross here and head for the sally port.” Nicholas nudged Zeus down the muddy riverbank, dismounted. He turned to the others. “Quickly! Children stay on the horses. Adults swim alongside. Bethie, you’ll ride and hold Belle. I’ll be right beside you.”

  She nodded, her sweet face set with a look of determination. The journey had been hard on her, he knew. She had dark circles beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. Dressed in a borrowed linsey-woolsey gown, she looked thinner than when they’d set out. But she had not wavered. She had not complained. She had even saved his life.

  Nicholas led the stallion to the river’s edge and into the icy current, the others behind him. He heard Bethie’s quick intake of breath as the water reached her thighs.

  “Belle’s no’ goin’ to like this much. I willna be able to keep her quiet.”

  As soon as she touched the cold water, the baby began to cry.

  “It will be all right. We’re almost there. When we get to the other side, ride straight for the sally port. Can you see it?” He pointed to an angular wall on the river’s edge.

  Her teeth chattered. “Aye.”

  “Pass through the opening in that wall, and there’s a drawbridge. Ride across.”

  The current was strong, but not dangerous. Zeus, accustomed to crossing rivers, had no difficulty mastering the water, even with Bethie on his back.

  Behind them, the youngest Calhoun child was crying.

  Then Nicholas heard a frightened whinny. One of the horses remained on the riverbank. A high-strung stallion, it shied away from the water, threatened to rear. The Wallace woman kept a tight hand on its bridle, but the stallion refused to enter the river. On its back sat the Wallace’s daughter, a girl of about seven. She clutched its mane, a look of terror on her face.

  Bethie saw the woman’s predicament, saw that Master Wallace was already deep in the river with their youngest child, a boy. “She needs your help, Nicholas. Belle and I will be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She tried to smile through chattering teeth, clutched Belle close to warm her. “Aye. We’ve done this b-before, you know.”

  Nicholas gave her one last look, his blue eyes dark with concern. “Head for the sally port. Stop for nothing and no one.”

  Then he was gone, swimming in strong strokes back toward the bank.

  Bethie watched over her shoulder as he reached the shore, took Goody Wallace’s shawl, wrapped it over the stallion’s head, and led the terrified animal into the water. Then she turned her attention to the far side of the river, which slowly drew closer.

  Something whistled past her from behind, hit the water beside her.

  Her head spun around, just as another arrow landed harmlessly to her left.

  Her heart lurched. Behind her, frightened women and children screamed.

  A war party stood beneath the eaves of the forest behind them, dozens of warriors, their faces painted with vermilion.

  The Delaware war party.

  Bethie’s heart gave a sickening lurch. Her mouth went dry.

  A shout went up from the grassy walls.

  The soldiers had spotted them.

  Shots rang out.

  Abruptly the arrows ceased.

  Bethie hazarded a glance at the riverbank, saw the war party running for the cover of the trees. Then she felt the stallion’s hooves strike ground. The horse labored through the chest-deep water and was soon fighting its way up the steep, muddy bank.

  Ride for the sally port.

  She glanced back over her shoulder, saw the Magee boys right behind her, followed by the Calhouns, with the Wallaces and Nicholas taking up the rear.

  Ride for the sally port.

  An arrow whistled through the air.

  The Indians were firing from the cover of the trees!

  More shots from the fort.

  She turned the stallion’s head toward the fort, kicked in her heels. The horse sprang forward at a full gallop.

  From the earthen ramparts above, soldiers shouted encouragement, waved them on. “Ride! Hurry! Ride!”

  She was close enough now that the walls of the fort blocked the light of the rising sun.

  “Ride!”

  The sally port was before her.

  “Ride!”

  Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten.

  She guided the stallion through the portal, saw the drawbridge, which the soldiers had already opened for them.

  Cheers went up around her as, one by one, the horses and their wet riders crossed the bridge, entered the safety of the fort. Last of all came Nicholas riding with Goody Wallace and her little girl.

  The bridge rose behind them.

  Weak with relief, Bethie bent over the stallion’s neck, patted its wet shoulder, sent a silent prayer of thanksgiving winging skyward. In her arms, Belle wailed indignantly, a beautiful sound that made Bethie smile.

  They were alive. They were all alive.

  Strong hands reached up, lifted her from the saddle, lowered her to the ground.

  And then Nicholas was before her, his wet hair clinging to his chest, his chin dark with stubble, his eyes full of concern for her.

  Later she would not be able to say whether he’d kissed her first or she had kissed him. But as they claimed each other with lips and tongue, she knew she’d never tasted anything sweeter.

  * * *

  Captain Écuyer stood before his window in his spartan office, staring out over the fort. His hands were fisted tightly behind his back, his brown wig and rust-colored uniform clean and neat down to the square loops of his buttons. “It’s worse than you think. Gladwin is besieged by Pontiac and his Ottawa. Forts and outposts across the northwest are falling or have already fallen—Sandusky, St. Joseph, Presque Isle. Gladwin’s last dispatch said the Wyandot and Potawatomi had joined with Pontiac. Curse their barbaric race!”

  Nicholas leaned against the closed door, crossed his arms, bit back his reply. He knew Indians weren’t the only ones capable of barbarity, but now was not the time to argue. “I assume Governor Amherst has reinforcements on the way.”

  Écuyer gave a rather ungentlemanly snort, and in his frustration his slight French accent seeped through. Swiss by birth, he seemed to strive to be more English than Parliament. “Our esteemed commander believes we are exaggerating the strength of the enemy and giving up hard-fought ground too easily. He thinks the fighting is over and the war won. Still, Dalyell is on his way to Fort Detroit with Rogers’ Ranging Company, and Colonel Bouquet is supposedly marching toward us with his regiment of Scottish Highlanders—all told about eight hundred men.”

  Against a few thousand Indians—Ottawas, Ojibwe, Wyandot, Potawatomi, Shawnee, Seneca, Chippewa, Sauk, Kikkapoo, and Miami—all fighting together to protect their homeland against invading whites. Rogers’ Rangers and Highland Scots were good, but they weren’t invincible.

  “How many men do you have?”

  Écuyer turned away from the window, faced Nicholas, his gaze traveling over Nicholas’s trail-worn clothing. “We’re built to hold one thousand, but I’ve got only three hundred, counting traders, farmers, and backwoodsmen—the riffraff of a colony spawned in hell.
They bring women and children, useless people who consume our resources but cannot fight! In all, His Majesty is feeding nearly four hundred and twenty mouths each day. We’re desperately short of wood and flour. If we’re put to hard siege like Gladwin, we won’t last long.”

  A colony spawned in hell. Écuyer’s loathing for those beneath his social station wasn’t unusual, but under these circumstances, Nicholas found it particularly distasteful. On the frontier, such biases were a luxury none of them could afford. Braddock’s arrogance and subsequent defeat ought to have been proof enough of that.

  “What of artillery? I saw a few six-pounders on the walls.”

  “We can mount as many as eighteen cannon, but I’ve half that—three six-pounders, twice as many three-pounders.”

  Better than Nicholas had hoped, but not terribly useful in a siege. Shingiss could simply cordon off the fort, keep his warriors out of range, and wait until starvation forced Écuyer to surrender. Then it would be an outright slaughter.

  “Perhaps it’s wise to begin rationing now.”

  Écuyer turned away from the window, met his gaze. “Aye, a sensible plan. I’d like to send parties out to gather spelt and what food they can from the king’s garden. I’d appreciate it if you could oversee those operations, Nicholas. I’ve been told there’s no Englishman alive who is stealthier or knows the way of the heathen better than you.”

  So this was why Écuyer had wanted to speak with him alone. The two of them had never really known each other, never been more than acquaintances. Nicholas had thought it odd to receive a summons to the commander’s office the moment he’d arrived. “We’ll see.”

  Écuyer took a step toward him, betrayed his eagerness. “I’m ready to restore your rank as a first lieutenant and put all of our resources at your disposal.”

  “I didn’t come here to join your regiment.”

  Écuyer’s nostrils flared ever so slightly, and he spoke in clipped syllables. “Surely you intend to fight!”

  “If Shingiss cannot be persuaded to leave in peace, there will be no choice for any of us but to fight.”