Band of Sisters

by Cathy Gohlke

  “Alice? Alice, where are you?” Maureen could not believe her ears or the hope that beat in her chest. “Keep talkin’. I’ll come to you!”

  “My cage is against an outside wall; that’s all I know. I’ve no idea where they keep the keys, but I’ve heard them hang them near my cage.”

  Maureen ran in the direction of the familiar voice, but as the two called to each other, a life, a fervor, passed from cage to cage. Women cried, then screamed for help, the room exploding in a riot of calls that curdled Maureen’s blood.

  “Come to me—to me!”

  “Help me!”

  “Open the door!”

  Maureen could no longer distinguish between one voice and another, could no longer hear Alice above the rest.

  Help me, Lord!

  Find the keys. That voice in her head came clearly, above the rest—not an audible voice, but a voice of reason and stability in the midst of chaos. The insistent voice that had counseled her before.

  Holding her flashlight steady, she fanned its light across the walls of the cave, floor to ceiling, coming to rest on a heavy brass ring. “Keys,” she whispered in relief, pulling the ring from a post rammed high into the wall.

  She prayed, as she fumbled with the first lock, that the key would fit all the locks, open all the cages. But the key stuck, jammed into the first lock. She tugged and twisted it back and forth until she was able to pull it free.

  But even after she jerked wide the door, the woman cowered in her sodden cell corner, her face and eyes shielded by her arm as though she feared Maureen might strike her.

  “Come out! Come out!” Maureen pulled the woman’s arm.

  The woman burrowed deeper into the corner of her cage. Maureen finally left her, fearful of the passing of time. For every turning of the key and opening of the lock, for every swinging wide the door of their prison, not one woman in three ventured through her open door.

  She pleaded with them to come out, but she understood too well the absolute terror written on their faces. They trust no one—not even freedom.

  Maureen, helpless to help them believe they were free, shed silent tears of frustration for them, came close to cursing, as she continued to unlock cages.

  “Maureen? Maureen, is it truly you?” The feeble, hopeful plea came from behind a blanket and locked door near the end of the first row.

  “Alice!” Maureen dropped the keys in her excitement, then scrambled across the puddling floor to retrieve them. She fumbled with the lock, twisted and turned the key. Nothing. She groaned, jerked the key from its lock, tried again, and the stiff lock pulled open.

  The cell door flung forward. Maureen grabbed her friend by the arms, dragging her to her feet. “Alice! Alice!” she wept. “Oh, thank God! Thank You!”

  Alice was thinner by half, cheek bruised, hair matted, her waist and skirt wet and torn, but she was alive, and Maureen rejoiced in the wonder of her friend.

  “Have you seen Eliza? Do you know what they’ve done with her?”

  Alice shook her head miserably. “I think they took her away—somewhere. I heard her once, but I couldn’t help her, and after that . . .”

  “We’ve got to get you out.” Maureen pulled back, still grasping her friend’s frail arms, desperately trying to rub strength and life into them. “Those men will be back any minute, and the one who took you—Jaime Flynn—he’s comin’ by boat to clear the cave.”

  “They don’t mean to take us all—the boat’s too small. He never takes more than a dozen at once.”

  “There’s a storm. The river’s risin’ and it will flood the cave—everyone must be moved.”

  “They’ll only move the healthiest. I heard them talking before you came.”

  “But—”

  Alice covered her face with her hands as if shutting out an image too horrible to bear. “We’ve got to get out of here before they lock us in again.”

  “There’s nearly fifty of us. If we band together, we can run them over.”

  “We’re too weak,” Alice argued, “and too afraid. There won’t be time to unlock all the cages. They’ll come with guns—and cords! We’ve got to get out!”

  “The tunnel leads back to the mansion, and—”

  Alice shook her head wearily, and Maureen knew every word cost energy her friend couldn’t sustain. “Beyond the door—” Alice pointed to the door where Flynn was expected—“we can climb over their sandbags and up onto a ledge. There’s a side tunnel beyond that. It leads up to an opening—into a copse of trees.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s how he brought Eliza and me in—by truck, into the trees, then marched us down through the cave. I can lead us out. But it’s a narrow climb—one at a time.”

  Maureen bit her lip. She wanted to hold tight to Alice, to run with her, but the pressure in her heart insisted, Help them.

  If I help them, we’ll be caught!

  Trust Me.

  But—

  Trust Me.

  Maureen ordered, “I’ll unlock the doors, and you coax them out. Then lead them through the tunnel. I’ll push from behind.”

  “There’s no time, I’m telling you! Come with me now!”

  Despite the fear weighting her feet and legs, Maureen shoved the key into the next lock and the next. What if Katie Rose were one of these? What if Eliza is here somewhere? Dear God, I know I cannot leave them. I cannot leave even one! “You go!” she whispered, the conviction in her heart growing. Then louder, “Go!”

  But Alice stayed by her side. As quickly as Maureen unlocked the doors, Alice pulled prisoners from their cages. Only when she stumbled did Maureen slap her awake and shove her toward the tunnel. “You’ve got to lead them out. I don’t know the way!”

  Still Alice balked.

  “I’ll be soon behind you. Go!” She turned back to her work, trusting Alice to do her part.

  The women, once outside their cages, stood, unbending their limbs, dazed and uncertain. Some, though still strong, were drugged beyond grasping their opportunity. Maureen pointed them toward the door and Alice. Stumbling, a few formed a sluggish human train—boxcars disconnected.

  Maureen worked quickly, from one lock to the next. But the locks were stiff and some were rusted.

  The weight of her cloak slowed her down. She tore at its buttons, yanking it off and shoving it high on a ledge, desperate to save the precious ledger pages hidden in its lining from the water that streamed through the doorway, a quickly rising tide. She went back to work.

  When Maureen glanced up again, she saw the train of women slipping in the rushing, ankle-deep water, exhausting fragile stores of strength to regain their footing and move forward. “Grab hands!” she called.

  They trust no one enough to reach for them—not the woman before or behind.

  “Join hands! Join hands so you don’t fall!” Maureen screamed, pushing women forward. “Form a chain!”

  Most of the women ignored her, each staying her own course. But one here and there reached for a woman behind her or for a skirt in front of her, pulling herself and the next woman along.

  Maureen unlocked another door and unceremoniously dragged the frightened captive to the aisle. She’d opened but half the cages. The emaciated woman in the next cage had been terribly beaten, her clothing and bedding soiled and stained with blood. The woman closed her eyes and turned her back on her rescuer.

  Though Maureen urged and tugged and pulled, she knew that for this woman there was no reason to live, no freedom great enough to rouse the energy to run. Still she begged, “Please, please come with me. I’ll help you. I swear it!”

  Jaime Flynn didn’t like winter boat runs, and he didn’t like it that Belgadt’s phone line had been dead so long. All he could do was follow his last set of orders, no matter that the weather made those nearly impossible.

  He thought Belgadt overly cautious about using land transportation after a storm. Who’s out in this mess to care about tracks in mud and snow? But he also knew i
t was Victor Belgadt’s penchant for detail and cover that had kept the operation secret and lucrative.

  Flynn stood behind the boat captain and stared into the Hudson’s predawn fog. He shrugged. I suppose I’ve made enough gaffes of late. Best not to stray from his lordship’s good graces. I might as well indulge the hand that feeds me. He tugged lower his checkered cap.

  The boat pulled deftly into a nearly hidden tributary above Cold Spring. Ice chunks crowded the banks, but the center flow was clear. The cave lay dead ahead.

  Joshua Keeton set the binoculars on the farm window’s ledge and kneaded the base of his neck. Willing away the crick there, he forcibly opened wide his eyes. It had been a long night, ever since Curtis had telephoned that Drake Meitland had flown the coop in Washington.

  It had seemed an excellent plan to have Joshua wait and keep an eye on the comings and goings of any in Belgadt’s house. Most importantly he’d be closer to Maureen, should it appear that things were getting out of hand.

  Joshua knew it would take Drake hours to make his way back to New York and Cold Spring, but neither he nor Curtis knew whom he might have contacted in the meantime. Confirmed doubts about the legitimacy of Curtis’s operation would surely trigger a mass evacuation of Belgadt’s “inventory” by land or river.

  As Curtis’s contacts watched the river, Joshua watched the only road into or out of the estate from the window of a couple all too willing to assist in the downfall of Mr. Belgadt, the pompous neighbor who’d sent his lackeys to coerce them into selling their farm. All the while, Joshua prayed for Maureen.

  He started at the soft nudge against his arm.

  “It’s after six, Mr. Keeton.” Mrs. Bramwell, the farmer’s wife, handed him a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Ah, thanks, Mrs. Bramwell.” He stretched and sipped the bitter brew—strong enough to stand a spoon in and scalding. Keeping awake was no longer a challenge.

  “Try this bit of sweet bread while you’re watching. I’ll fix a platter of eggs and sausages when Hiram comes in from the barn.”

  Joshua smiled his thanks, his mouth watering at the prospect of a hot breakfast, and turned back to the window.

  But Mrs. Bramwell didn’t move. She leaned into the windowpane, peering over Joshua’s shoulder, her breath near enough to tickle his ear. “What in the world?”

  “What? What do you see?” Joshua adjusted his lens.

  Mrs. Bramwell pointed to a distance far to the east. “Now, what do you suppose those girls are doing traipsing through the woods this time of the morning, so wet and bedraggled?”

  Joshua aimed his binoculars in the direction she pointed. “Two girls—no, three—five . . . They’ve no coats!” He adjusted the lens for a closer view. “Nor shoes . . . I don’t like the looks of this.” He dropped the binoculars to the table behind him as he pulled on his coat. “Make the call, Mrs. Bramwell. This is it.”

  A half mile into the cave, the tributary divided. Flynn and his men bore a hard right. Rounding two bends, they came to a makeshift dock and cast their lines ashore.

  Flynn frowned, pulled the straps of his fishing boots over his shoulders, and hopped to the narrow ledge. Water must be two feet above high tide. He swallowed, realizing that the sandbags ahead could provide no match for the swollen river.

  Gripping the damp rock, he made his way round another bend, expecting to glimpse at least the tops of the bags. But they’d disappeared beneath the current—he couldn’t tell how deep. The lapping, sloshing water covered not only the bags but the rock-hewn stairs above them and poured through the metal door, standing wide open.

  They can’t be sending sixty women up through the cave! Flynn grimaced. He didn’t fancy slogging or swimming through the freezing pool only to discover that Grimes and Mercer had already moved the inventory by land. He swore. Belgadt will blame me if his cover is blown, no matter what those idiots do.

  That was when he saw two women across the pool, struggling to help each other maintain precarious footing as they crept along the narrow ledge that led up into the hillside tunnel.

  Before Flynn could determine his next move, another woman pushed through the doorway, then another. This is foolishness! Where’s Grimes? If it’s that desperate, why aren’t they taking them up through the house?

  Freezing or no, Flynn slipped into the water, gambling that the river would not fill his boots like cement blocks, and waded through the deep. Within earshot of the human chain, he bellowed, “Grimes! Mercer!”

  His shouts initiated screams of recognition and terror from the women, but no familiar face emerged from the holding room. Flynn swore again and groped for the steps, shoving the woman in his path into the freezing water.

  Joshua’s calls for Maureen grew desperate. He recognized four or five of the women from Belgadt’s nights of entertainment. But where is Maureen? They couldn’t have escaped on their own. He knew that Belgadt would not be sending them away on foot or unescorted. Most of all, he wagered this was just the kind of desperate and unexpected break Maureen might have initiated.

  He pushed against the growing tide of terrified, river-sodden women as they poured from the copse of trees. He pitied them, would help them, but only after he found Maureen.

  He called for her again and again, turning the shoulders of every raven- or flame-haired woman to search her face. Following the line, he reached at last the tunnel’s hidden entrance. A young woman, so weak she could barely stand and soaked to her skin, pulled captives one by one from the narrow pass.

  “Maureen—have you seen Maureen O’Reilly or a woman called Mary Carmichael?” he begged her.

  “Maureen?” The woman whitened.

  “Please—have you seen her?”

  “She’s . . . she’s unlocking the cages before the boat comes to take them away!”

  “Cages?” But Joshua sensed there was no time to ask. “This tunnel—will it take me to her?”

  “Yes.” The bedraggled young woman looked suddenly relieved. She grasped Joshua’s arm. “Help her—please, please help her!”

  Joshua needed no encouragement. Pulling the next woman up and into the light, he squeezed into the pass and began the winding trek downward.

  “Come—come.” Maureen pulled another woman from her cage as the water swirled about their waists. She pushed the lagging group toward the tunnel and door, now half-filled by the water rushing into the lower room.

  A few empty cages had come loose from the floor and tipped, like barges unmoored, confounding the women. Maureen herded the group round them, for the women were too dazed and weak to reason and weakening faster in the frigid water.

  “Go! Follow the ledge!” she cried and turned back to tackle more locks. The next door she pulled open, the woman was already dead, her eyes rolled back in her head, her limbs quickly stiffening in the cold water. Maureen wept and cursed because she’d wasted precious moments on the dead. She wept anew because the woman had not lived to taste freedom, all the while forcing her stiffening fingers to work the next lock.

  But when she looked up, the human train had stopped again. Women stumbled backward, into the water, into the room.

  “Go! To the ledge and the tunnel! You must move forward!” Maureen cried. “I promise I’ll help you!”

  But the women continued to fall back, whimpering.

  “Well, now, what have we here? We ought not promise things we can’t deliver; don’t you agree, sweet Miss O’Reilly?” From atop the rushing threshold, the too-familiar Irish brogue sneered.

  Maureen’s veins froze. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in . . . God, help me. . . . Deliver me. . . . Breathe out . . . Deliver these women. . . . Breathe in . . . The prayer gave her power, and she bluffed her way forward.

  “Mr. Belgadt wants his inventory saved, and you’re late! They’ve got to go up through the tunnel or they’ll drown. Help me get them out,” she shouted above the swirling water’s roar and turned to the next lock.

  “You’re working for Belgadt?” Flynn sho
uted, clearly not believing.

  “I’m working to save these women, Mr. Flynn. Help me, or you’ll have Mr. Belgadt to answer to.” She pushed another woman through the door, calling, “Follow the ledge!”

  He stepped round both women, blocking Maureen’s return to the cages. She tried to brush past him, but he caught her arm. “He doesn’t want all—only the fittest.”

  She jerked free. “There’s no time for this—no way to know who’s fit and who’s not. Help or get out!”

  “What I know, Miss O’Reilly, is that you’ll fetch a brighter penny than any of these used-up wretches.” He laughed and caught her tight in his grasp, but she pulled back, and the lunge forced her into the water. She went under and came up coughing, gasping for breath.

  He reached for her again, but she jerked a cage door between them, ramming its corner against his face.

  Disbelief, then fury, flashed through his eyes. He clasped a hand to his bleeding mouth and hurled the metal door aside.

  Maureen scrambled for the open door, pushing her heavy skirts through waist-high water. She’d barely reached the threshold when he caught her by the legs, dragged her back, and thrust her down into the water.

  She fought and kicked, but he was stronger. Even in her panic she knew she could not gain the upper hand. She twisted, turned, and bit his arm, sinking sharp teeth nearly to the bone.

  He bellowed but grabbed her by the hair.

  Maureen pulled his feet from under him and wrenched herself free, leaving the sopping black wig in his hand.

  She’d gained the door, the mound of sandbags, the ledge, daring to believe she might outrun him, when he grabbed the hem of her skirt and caught her up, ripping the sleeve of her waist. She beat him with her fists, but he threw her over his shoulder and let her beat and kick away.

  Flynn stumbled, hauling her over the bags, and shoved her in the water. Before she could gain her feet, he grabbed a fistful of hair and, dragging her through the water, beat and slapped, kicking her ribs until he’d forced her into a cage, jerking her petticoat beneath her.