Whoever was outside didn’t want to be seen. He kept against the side of the building, his head bent low, as he moved from the door and skirted the cabin’s left side.
Richard froze, his hand halting the private behind him. The man was heading in their direction.
Catherine was frightened, but it didn’t stop her from dressing in her husband’s clothes and leaving the tiny cabin in the woods. She’d stayed longer than she’d expected. William and Greene had been gone for some time. Fear of their return had prompted her to move quickly, to rummage recklessly through her husband’s belongings, which he’d recently retrieved from their house.
The night was pitch black. She had difficulty adjusting her eyesight to the darkness, for William had left a candle burning on the table. While the light had helped her to dress hastily, it hampered her progress into the darkened forest.
She took nothing with her, leaving behind the homespun gown she’d come in, and the few personal belongings William had thrust at her after his trip back to their house. She cared not how she looked; her only thought was to escape the man she’d married, the man who had murdered her only son.
Catherine slipped from the cabin and kept her back against the wall before she stooped low to skirt the building. William and his man Greene had headed straight away from the hut’s entrance. She intended to go the opposite way to increase her chances for a successful escape.
Her destination was the Van Attas’ farm. Her sister-in-law would tell her what to do. And Agnes’ husband would welcome what little information she’d managed to obtain from the men who’d held her prisoner these past days.
Unsure of her location, Catherine had decided earlier to continue through the woods until she reached a road. Perhaps then she’d recognize where she was. If not, she’d follow the road until she came to a village or town—or someone who might direct her on the right path to Hoppertown. She knew she might encounter friend or foe. Her only hope was that God remained with her on her journey, directing her steps. She carried a small weapon for defense, a kitchen knife she’d unearthed from the cooking utensils William had so thoughtfully provided for her use.
There was no one about as she crept around the outside of the cabin. She could hear her heart thundering within her breast as she left the side of the structure for the woods.
It was cold. Catherine drew the edges of William’s coat about herself and, with head down, moved through the tall dried grass, past thorn bushes which snagged the fabric of her breeches. With a soft exclamation, she paused to free herself before she continued on her perilous journey.
She heard the rustling through the trees and knew it was the wind, but it terrified her. In her mind she pictured wild creatures she might meet. She wasn’t afraid of raccoon or deer; and certainly the rabbits, squirrels, and other small animals wouldn’t harm her. But there were bears in these New Jersey forests, big monstrous brutes that could rip the flesh from a human being.
“Stop! Or I’ll shoot,” someone commanded.
Catherine froze, her terror blinding her. The male voice came from ahead, but she couldn’t make out anyone. She heard the crunch of footsteps against dry twigs as the man approached her.
There were two of them, she saw. She inhaled a few calming breaths, her hand going to the waist of her breeches where she kept the knife.
“Don’t move, fellow, or we’ll kill you now!”
Her hand fell to her side. Catherine realized then that they thought her a man. Good, perhaps I can use that against them.
One man came forward before the other. She saw instantly that he was tall and had light hair. In the darkness, those were the only two things she could tell about him.
“Who are you?” Richard approached, his watchful gaze on the stranger’s arms. He was leery of any sudden moves the fellow might make. The man didn’t answer. “Private? Come ahead. Check him for weapons.”
The stranger gasped. “No!”
Both men drew to a halt. The voice was most definitely a female’s.
“Lady?” Richard asked.
“Don’t—stay away!”
“We’ll not hurt y—”
“I said, no!” Her hand moved like lightning, pulling out the knife, holding it before her to keep the private at bay.
“What is your name?”
“Are you for the King?” she asked.
Richard was silent. “Is a King’s man a better man?”
“Damn the King and all that follow him!” she said.
“We are Patriots!” the private said. “Soldiers in General Washington’s army.”
Richard was smiling at the lady’s last reply.
The knife wavered within her grasp. “Patriots?”
“Aye, mistress. I’m Private Andrew Jones. This is Richard Maddox. Lieutenant Richard Maddox.”
Richard started. It was the first time he’d been referred to by rank. “You are obviously for the cause, dear woman. For what purpose have you come here?”
Catherine lowered the knife. “I am escaping. And if you are at all gentlemen, you will tell me where I am so that I may return to Hoppertown, my home.”
Richard’s muscles tensed. “You are from Hoppertown?”
“I am. I have lived for many years there. My husband and I.” She grew silent. “I have a husband no longer.”
“I’m sorry, lady,” the private said.
She drew herself erect. “Don’t be. He’s not dead to the world, only to me.” Her voice became a whisper. “He murdered our son.”
Richard stepped forward then, aware of the implication of the woman’s comments. “You are Catherine Randolph. Miles’s mother.” He approached enough to see her face. Her eyes were wide with fear, but they held determination, too. She wore a man’s clothes for protection. The sight of her dressed thus gently reminded Richard of Kirsten. Catherine Randolph’s hair was covered with a dark, knit cap.
As she saw him, the woman gasped with surprised recognition. “You are—”
“I’m not what you thought,” he said, referring to the time when he’d stayed at her farm as one of Greene’s men. “I’m a Patriot, true enough.”
Her expression had become wary. “You were with—”
“I work for General Washington,” Richard interrupted. “Some call me the Mad Ox.”
“I see.” She looked disbelieving.
“’Tis true, mistress,” Andrew Jones said. “He is what he claims.”
“I promise that the Van Attas—your niece—will vouch for me,” Richard said.
“My niece . . .” Her gaze narrowed. “What is her name?”
“Kirsten.”
She seemed to relax then. Apparently, she believed him. “Will you take me to Hoppertown?” Catherine glanced about as if expecting, fearing, to see her husband. “Please say yes, for my time runs out. They—John Greene and William—will return soon.”
Richard grinned, his teeth a white slash in the dark night. “We will be most happy to escort you, Mrs. Randolph, for we are on our way to Hoppertown.”
When Phelps arrived at the cabin, it was empty, but he saw signs that someone had been staying there recently. Guessing that Randolph would be back, he moved in and made himself comfortable.
It was in the early morning hours that Kirsten woke to the sound of gunfire. She sat up in bed, her heart pounding. There had been numerous raids of late on the Hoppertown residents. The Tories were striking without warning, without care for the women and children in the homes they’d targeted for attack.
“Kirsten!” Her mother burst into the bedchamber. “Come quickly! Grab your rifle and stay away from the windows. We’re being shot at!”
“Moeder! Who is it? Tories?”
Agnes confessed that she didn’t know as she hustled her daughter from the room.
James Van Atta was already downstairs at the parlor window, armed, his pistol raised.
“Vader?” Kirsten came up behind him, the flintlock in hand.
“Stay back, daughter,”
he ordered.
“But I can shoot as well as any man.” She met his gaze steadily, without fear.
He nodded. “The other window then. But don’t shoot until I say to.”
Kirsten obeyed her father, moving to the second window, lifting her gun. She stared down the barrel toward the front yard. There was no movement, no sign of life.
A second blast of gunfire. Suddenly, out of the forest ran three people, ducking low to avoid being hit from behind.
“Why, they’re seeking shelter!” James said.
“Shall I open for them?” Agnes hurried to the door.
Kirsten rose up, excited. “Vader—please! Before one of them gets shot!”
Agnes opened the door a crack. A few yards away, one stranger tripped, and the other two lifted him up by the arms. Kirsten’s mother swung open the portal.
“Agnes!” a feminine voice said.
Agnes jerked back in surprise. “Catherine?” She shot her husband a glance. “My word, James, it’s Catherine. ”
“Aunt Catherine?” Kirsten gasped. She stood behind her mother at the door. “Who’s that with her?”
The three rose up and hurried toward the open door. The gunfire was less frequent now; there was no sign of the snipers.
Agnes moved back as Catherine bolted toward the house, followed by the others, giving Kirsten a better view of the three seeking refuge.
She caught sight of a tawny mane, the familiar way one man moved. She froze. “Richard?” she whispered
Richard looked up then, and their gazes met briefly before he traversed the remaining feet into the house. When everyone was safe, he closed the door. Only then did he turn back to Kirsten.
“Hello, love,” he said to her, and Kirsten rejoiced to see him again.
“Richard, it’s you! I can scarcely believe my eyes. Where did you come from?” She set her rifle against the wall.
“From Washington’s camp. We were on our way back when we came across your aunt.”
She gazed at her Aunt Catherine. “Are you all right?”
The woman smiled, but her eyes were dull. “Lieutenant Maddox and Private Jones brought me.”
“How?” Kirsten sputtered. “Where did you meet?”
A gun went off in the distance, and Richard frowned, joined James at the window. “I believe they’re leaving, sir.”
James Van Atta, startled by the recent turn of events, nodded without a word.
“Richard?” Kirsten was still waiting to hear how both her aunt and Richard had come to be here in her own home.
“William is mad,” Catherine said, drawing everyone’s glance. “He’s kept me a prisoner these past days . . . in a cabin in the woods.” The Van Attas nodded sympathetically.
“That’s where we found her,” Jones said. “Outside of Hackensack, where we had to stop to confer with the captain of the militia there.”
Catherine turned toward her brother-in-law. “I have learned something of William’s plans. He meets with others now. I don’t know whom. But he has a connection somewhere. I think he’s building an army.”
James nodded. “He already has, if my guess is right. There have been raids on Hoppertown these past three nights. Perhaps William is involved.”
His sister-in-law agreed. “We must talk later,” she said, addressing the men.
Catherine then touched her niece’s arm. “Kirsten, tell me what happened. Tell me about Miles.”
Kirsten, knowing that the truth would only cause her aunt more pain, hesitated.
“I know,” Catherine said. Her lined features hardened. “I know William killed my boy.”
“Aunt Catherine—I’m so sorry.”
“William, these past few years, hasn’t been . . . right,” she said. “I should have left him.”
Kirsten’s eyes stung. “It’s not your fault.”
Tears filled Catherine’s eyes when Agnes came to her and put an arm about her trembling shoulders. “I’m sorry,” Agnes whispered.
Catherine met her gaze. “Don’t you blame yourself, Agnes dear. There was nothing you could have done. It was William. William did it. He alone is responsible for his misdeeds. He alone must pay.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
William Randolph was extremely pleased. He waited for his men to join him in the field near the ruins of the old Van Atta mill.
Ernest Jacobs arrived first. He was one of the seven men from Hackensack that John Greene convinced to join their ranks. “Well?” he asked as Greene and the others followed.
“Terhune’s place is gone, burned to the ground,” John said with a grin.
“Any survivors?” William asked.
John nodded. “Two—perhaps three. I saw a man and woman fleeing.”
“Ah, well, it’ll teach the sorry bastard a lesson in loyalty, won’t it?” Pete McGinnis said.
The men laughed and agreed.
This was William’s first raid since the disaster at the Van Voorhees’ farm. These past few days he’d given the commands to attack, but had not joined in and was, as a result, unable to fully appreciate their success. Tonight he’d decided to go along. Catherine slept like the dead; she’d never know he was gone. Besides, if she did she wouldn’t leave, because she wouldn’t know where to go. She was terrified of the forest, and at night . . .
With Van Graaf dead, the only contact William had within the rebel camp was Rhoades, one of Washington’s men. It had been some time since the Patriot general had been in Hoppertown long enough for William and Rhoades to meet.
William needed to speak with him. Someone must have replaced the Mad Ox by now, and William wanted to know who that was. He’d dropped hints in Hackensack, hoping someone would rise to the bait and seek out Biv as the two spies had before. This man, Biv, it was rumored, was a man for freedom, a willing spy for the Patriot forces.
Time was running out. The British Army had to move—and soon. A post sent to Thatcher told the major of William’s work in Hoppertown, of the supplies that would be waiting once William had subdued the residents and taken their goods. Thatcher was no doubt furious with him, for there had been no supply runs to New York of late, and the major sought to profit by them. This bit of news will brighten the man’s day, William thought. In a week’s time, the Tories would be making their runs again, smuggling goods to their British friends to the south. William smiled.
“Randolph,” John Greene said, interrupting William’s reflections. “Jacobs here says he saw some rebs on the road not far from here.”
“That’s right.” Jacobs inhaled a bit of snuff, before replacing the pack in his coat pocket. He chuckled as he withdrew a dirty handkerchief. “Fired at ’em, we did—me and Pete. Ye should ’ave seen the way the bastards ran!”
Glancing at the two men, William frowned. “Any idea who they were?”
McGinnis shook his head. “There were three of them is all I could tell. Fled to that farmhouse we seen on the other side of these old woods. Ye know, the one with the odd roof.”
William scowled. There were any number of houses with Dutch gambrel roofs, but he knew which one McGinnis meant, they were on Van Atta property. “James Van Atta,” he muttered with distaste.
Greene met his gaze. “The Terhunes and a servant?”
“No doubt,” William said. Sheltering the Terhunes was just one more sin for which James Van Atta must suffer.
The Van Attas had gone back to bed. Catherine Randolph was in the spare room, while Andrew Jones and Richard had bunked down in the parlor.
Unable to sleep, Richard rose from his pallet on the floor.
“Sir?” came Andrew’s sleepy voice.
“I’m going for a walk, Private.”
“But, sir . . . the gunmen . . . shall I go with you?”
Richard paused at the door to pull on a coat. “I’ll be fine, Andrew,” he said. “I’ll take James’s rifle and scout about the house. It won’t be long before I turn in.”
The moon was but a faint orb covered by clouds. The
air had a distinctive cold nip to it. Richard wandered to the side of the house, listening, his gaze alert for movement of any kind, his hand gripping the rifle. There was no one about. It was as if the earlier disturbance had never occurred, it was so peaceful. His steps took him toward the vegetable patch, which was nothing more than tilled, empty ground now.
Kirsten. His heart called for her. Her image haunted his every waking and dreaming moment. It had been so wonderful to see her again. Each time he returned to her, he was overwhelmed by gladness. He loved her. And he was determined that one way or another he would survive this war so that he could come back and live out his life with her.
He settled himself on a bench in the yard. Closing his eyes, he pictured her sweet face, her joy upon seeing him again. Her eyes were the most glorious shade of blue, like a fall sky on a clear day. Her lips were full and pink; they felt petal-soft beneath his mouth.
Richard’s body hardened with desire. It seemed forever since he’d last held her, caressed her silken skin, although it must have only been . . . what? A week? Two weeks at most?
Time had no meaning these days. While the war raged on, weeks seemed like months, days seemed like weeks.
He lay back against the bench, and stared into the trees above, overwhelmed with frustration and anger that the Patriots weren’t farther along in their quest for liberty from the King.
When will it be over? Richard wondered, closing his eyes. He sighed wearily.
Kirsten couldn’t sleep. How could she while Richard was so near . . . only a few steps and a staircase away?
Their reunion had been an unsatisfactory one. In the excitement of his arrival in the company of others, there had been no time for a proper greeting. A kiss.
It was a chilly night, but Kirsten felt warm beneath her feather tick where only hours before she’d been cold. Thoughts of Richard heated her to the core . . . memories of their loving . . . touching . . . joining. She squirmed on her mattress as a tingling invaded her private woman parts.
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