“It is a waste of time,” James said.
“Time is something we possess in abundance, friend. It must be three days to Winton by coach. What else wouldst thou do, engage in idle chatter the entire journey? Read her account unless thou art worried.”
“Nay, I’m not worried,” James said. “They’re only words. What would possibly cause me worry from that?”
“That thy conscience may be pricked.”
Prudence looked at James hopefully. She held out her papers. “It’s dawn,” she said. “There’s enough light to read now.”
“Very well, hand it over.” James untied the twine. “Now let me move so I can sit next to the window.”
Once he was next to the window, he turned his back to her, partly to get away from her prying gaze, but also to get as much of the light coming through as possible. Their breath had frozen on the pane, so he scraped it away with his fingernails.
The road was emerging from a marshy stretch that might be impassable in spring but was flat and hard at the moment. A forest of bony, leafless trees rose beyond, with hills rising behind them, and even taller hills—almost mountains—beyond that. It was a strange and terrifying landscape.
This wasn’t the pastures and fields of England or France, with their neat stone walls and hedges, every inch measured and owned for centuries. This was wild, the realm of wolves and savages. Never tamed, never cleared, never manured. Never brought under the civilizing influence of plow or ax.
A few score miles deeper into New England and even the scattered roads and towns would disappear. What lay beyond these huddled communities clinging to the edge of a vast, impenetrable wilderness? Could be anything. For hundreds upon hundreds of miles. The very thought made James want to leap from the coach and run toward Boston.
Instead, as if the devil were whispering James’s fears into Woory’s ears, the driver cracked his whip and shouted for the horses to pick up the pace. The coach lurched forward, carrying them ever deeper into the interior of the continent.
James looked down at the first page of Prudence’s account.
March, 1676
I lost track of the precise date as the tribe marched into the wilderness. Even to this day, my memories of those hungry, exhausting weeks of fleeing hither and yon remain muddled.
We walked and walked and walked. There was little rest, and less food. Soon I could scarcely feed my little one. My milk was drying. She cried most piteously, but there was nothing I could do to give her succor.
The war was lost for the tribes and they knew it. With every bit of news, the situation grew more desperate. The Narragansett were annihilated in the Great Swamp—the attack on Plymouth had failed. King Philip had attempted to enlist the Huron and Iroquois, but those powerful tribes rebuffed him. A French trapper came through and promised to take word to Quebec, but there was little hope that the French would intervene.
As we fled north, a Praying Indian caught up with us—a deserter from the English forces—to warn that Captain Knapp and two hundred men had marched from Springfield. The English had won a fierce battle with the Wampanoag, and now vowed to exterminate the Nipmuk.
Traveling with so many women, children, and elderly, it was clear that we would not outrun the English militia. One morning, as I lay weak, unable to feed my babe, Laka, the sachem’s wife, entered. She offered me a corn meal porridge and a roasted thrush.
I devoured the food. It was scarcely a mouthful, but was the largest meal I’d eaten in several days. Laka watched me eat with a sharp expression. When I’d finished, she told me she had a message from her husband, and I understood why I’d been fed so well.
Captain Knapp and his men were scarcely five miles behind. Praying Indians from Natick were helping the English track us. They would catch us by nightfall.
My heart pounded. I was elated that my ordeal might be over, yet terrified that I might be killed by my captors. And afraid too, that Knapp would put these people to the sword. His reputation among the Nipmuk—even if half were true—had made me think of him as a demon of bloodshed and death.
But the sachem had an idea. He wanted me to return to the English and beg them for a parley. The Nipmuk wanted no more of the war. They would even quit New England. Only let them escape into the wilderness and they vowed to disappear forever.
Yet even after so many months, the Nipmuk did not trust me. Laka told me I must leave my precious Mary behind until my task was accomplished. If I betrayed them, my child would die.
Yes, I said—If it is the only way to end the war and save the lives of these people. I will do it.
James glanced back to the beginning. March 1676, scarcely nine months ago. He’d forgotten how recently Prudence had suffered at the hands of her captors. Instead, his thoughts had been on the earlier events at Winton, as Sir Benjamin was tortured and killed. But when that happened, Prudence’s nightmare had just begun.
He better understood the terrible look that had swept over her face when she’d asked if he’d read her account.
“You suffered so terribly at their hands,” James said. “Yet you were worried what would become of your tormentors. Why?”
Prudence was no longer studying him. Instead, she carried a worried expression. “Something is amiss.”
The coach was moving too quickly, jouncing through ruts and over rocks. They’d traveled most of the night. Why the devil was Woory driving the horses so hard? They might hit a rut or a stone heaved up by the frost, and the carriage would be tossed from the road.
Another whip crack, then Woory’s shouts. “Ha! Ha! Faster, you brutes!”
James opened the door and leaned out of the coach. The horses snorted and blew. Steam rose from their haunches. They stumbled with exhaustion, only minutes, it seemed, from collapse.
Woory leaned forward on the perch. He glanced over his shoulder at the road behind, even while rearing for another crack of the whip. James turned to look at the road behind, wondering what had the man so spooked. More wolves?
No.
It was half a dozen men on horse. They came riding two by two down the narrow strip of dirt and frozen mud that divided the forest. Trotting, not galloping, they were still a hundred yards back. Perhaps Woory knew something, but James didn’t initially note a hostile intent. Rather, he saw a group of men on fresher horses, soon to overtake the coach, yes, but no threat.
Then James took a closer look. His heart leaped into his throat.
They wore scarves tied around their faces. Hoods drawn over their heads. Some men carried muskets laid across their saddles. Others held drawn swords. Their posture, tense and leaning forward in their saddles, spoke of violence.
CHAPTER TEN
James ducked back into the coach. He drew his pistols and tucked his dagger into his belt.
“What is it?” Prudence demanded.
“Armed riders. Six of them.”
James checked the powder in the pans, to make sure the pistols were ready to fire.
“Reverend Stone must have sent them,” she said. “Tell Master Woory to stop. I’ll talk to them. They’ll see I’ve come of my own free will.”
“You’re wrong. They’re not here to bring you home. They’re masked. Whatever it is, they don’t want to be recognized.”
Peter rubbed at the window on his side to clear it of frost, then cupped his hands and peered through. There was no door on his side. “I can’t see behind us. Are they highwaymen?”
“Could be,” James said. “I waved around plenty of silver in Boston. Word might have got out when I was hiring the coach that I carried a goodly sum.”
“That’s impossible,” Prudence said.
“How so? There’d have been plenty of time to outfit riders and come after us.”
“There are no highwaymen in New England. No thieves of any kind. We are a lawful, Godly people.”
“A hungry man has no religion,” James said. “Half the western settlements burned. There must be a thousand desperate men roaming about.�
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“I’m telling you—”
He cut her off. “Whatever it is, they won’t find me easy prey. I mean to fight back.”
She looked alarmed. “Against six men?”
“Six cowards and bullies. And you say they’re not thieves. Fine, then they’re murderers. If I surrender, they’ll kill me anyway.”
“There are no murderers in New England, either.”
“Give them what they want,” Peter said. “Whatever they ask, it isn’t worth spending thy God-given life, my friend.”
James said nothing to either of their ridiculous assertions. Instead, he went back to preparing himself for a fight. His heart pounded in his chest and he forced himself to remain calm. He had faced cutthroats and assassins before. Highwaymen among them.
The coach began to slow. Woory cracked his whip, but nothing he did could keep the team racing forward. They’d spent their strength. Two horses came by outside the door. More figures darkened the other side a moment later. The coach jerked to a halt.
“Stand and deliver!” a voice shouted.
Indeed, highwaymen.
Maybe Peter was right. James could turn over his purse while keeping the half crown and several shillings he’d sewn into the lining of his cloak. Enough money to hire a room in a tavern while he sent back to Boston with a letter of credit to raise more funds.
“What is this?” Woory cried. His voice was high and panicked.
“You heard me. Your goods, your arms, your money. Now.”
“Wait, I know you. What are you doing here? Goodman Wal—”
A musket fired and cut him off. Woory cried out. Then someone jumped from a horse and grabbed for the coach door.
“Out, all of you!” a man boomed from outside.
James leaned back onto Prudence and drove open the door with his legs. The man on the other side fell backward. When James jumped out, the man was on the edge of the icy road, fighting to regain his balance.
The man held a sword in hand. His eyes were tired, bloodshot. His kerchief had slipped down, revealing thick, almost feminine lips that were red with cold. Stubble stood out on his cheeks. He looked well fed, not thin and desperate like other highway robbers James had faced in England and France.
The man pulled back his sword to take a swipe at James’s head. But he was moving too slowly, and he’d need two steps to close with his weapon. James lifted one of the pistols, took steady aim at the man’s face, and pulled the trigger.
The flint in the cock struck the frizzen, which sparked the powder in the pan. The muzzle of the gun discharged with a woof of fire and smoke. The man’s head jerked back, and he fell with a scream. Blood sprayed across the snow. He lay writhing on the ground. James dropped the empty pistol and snatched the man’s sword.
The sword in his right hand, the remaining pistol in his left, James whirled as a second man came up behind him on horse. The rider lifted a musket.
James dropped to the ground and rolled against the back wheel. Hooves pranced around him. The man tried to aim down at him, but there was little room for the horse to maneuver between the coach and the tree roots that snatched at the edge of the road. His gun went off, but the ball slammed into the ground almost a foot clear of James’s head.
Unable to get a clean shot himself, James sprang back to his feet when the horse passed. He thrust with the sword. It pierced the man’s cloak at his lower back. The man reached around for the blade with a cry as James pulled it free.
Conserving his second pistol, James slashed again with the sword, but this time the blade got caught in the man’s cloak, then hooked under his belt. James jerked it free, cutting loose the man’s powder horn. It fell, hit the ground, and spilled a fat black line of powder across the snow as the cap dislodged.
Meanwhile, the rider had recovered from the stab to his back. He fumbled for a pistol of his own, turning stiffly in the saddle as he tried to take aim.
James fled around the back of the coach before the man could bring it to bear. He came around the opposite side to discover three of the remaining highwaymen in front. Two had dismounted and stood over the prone, groaning form of Robert Woory. They thrust their sword tips into his belly.
The remaining man spotted James. He dropped the reins of his horse and lifted his musket.
But once again James had a chance to aim his pistol and take a calm, measured shot. He was farther away, so he aimed at the chest this time. The pistol kicked in his hand. The man fell from the saddle.
James had already dropped his discharged weapon and was charging at the two men standing over Woory. They came up with sword tips dripping blood. Woory was no longer moving. The villains had murdered him in cold blood. James brought the sword around from his shoulder to swing at the nearer of the two men.
The man lifted his sword and deflected the blow, but James had delivered it with such fury that it forced him to take two stumbled steps backward. James pressed his advantage. But his thrusts and stabs were parried aside. The second man circled and came charging in from James’s left.
This man was all aggression and no skill. James turned the initial thrust and swung around with his blade as the man rumbled past. His sword caught the man at the neck, and he fell.
But now the first swordsman was after him again. He had much more skill, and it was all James could do to fight him off. The two men were soon circling each other, trading ineffectual blows.
James gave a frantic glance to his rear. He’d shot two men with his pistols and cut down a third. That left this man and two more riders. Where were they? That stab wound hadn’t done enough to disable the first, and James hadn’t seen the other man since his initial glance out of the coach. Both men should be coming around to ride him down.
“Friends!” a familiar voice cried from the other side of the carriage, the speaker concealed by the snorting team of horses.
It was Peter. He came around the front of the coach with his hands held out beseechingly. He took in the carnage and his face slackened with dismay.
Go back, you fool!
“There has been enough bloodshed,” he said. “All of you, put down your weapons. Let us speak plainly one to another.”
A rider came up behind Peter. It was the man James had stabbed in the back earlier. He held himself stiffly in the saddle but had otherwise recovered. His sword gleamed in the bright light of dawn, reflecting off snow. As he came up behind the Indian, he leaned out.
“Peter, look out!”
The Indian turned toward the rider, but he didn’t cry out or throw himself clear. Instead, he stood in place while the man swept forward with his sword. It slashed him across the upper breast. Peter staggered but didn’t fall. He bent over with a cry, clutching at the wound as the rider turned his horse to renew the attack.
James tried to fight his way toward his companion, but he was hard pressed by the swordsman still coming at him. His opponent was an older man, and beginning to tire, his initial advantage dissipating. Had it been the two of them, James was confident he could hold the man off indefinitely until exhaustion settled the fight in his favor.
If only Peter would have the sense to throw himself from the road before the rider could get turned around to finish the business. The horse was having a hard time getting its footing on the snow and ice.
But then came the second missing rider. He must have been lurking behind the coach, perhaps watching the road. He brought his sword down from the shoulder as he overtook Peter. It struck the Indian across the neck. Peter fell. When the rider rose in the saddle, blood drenched his blade.
No!
This brutal attack had taken no more than a few seconds, but by the time James turned back to face his attacker, the man was already climbing back into the saddle of his horse. Meanwhile, the other two remaining riders spotted James and yanked on the reins to come at him.
James tried to shield himself with the edge of the coach. He didn’t stand a chance against three men on horse.
A pistol
fired. The man who’d struck down Peter slumped in the saddle with a cry. His horse reared, snorting, and the man fell hard to the frozen ground. His horse galloped down the road without him.
What the devil?
Then James spotted Prudence standing calmly, holding James’s pistols. Smoke leaked from the muzzle of the gun in her right hand. She dropped it and shifted over the second pistol.
The two surviving enemies exchanged a glance. Without a word they turned after the fleeing, riderless horse and galloped away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The instant the men turned to flee, Prudence’s hand and wrist began to tremble violently, and she thought she would be sick. She dropped the gun. It was unloaded; she’d not had time to load them both. She doubled over, her head light, and her knees buckling.
James flinched when the second gun hit the ground, as if expecting it to go off, but he quickly came over to catch her arm and steady her. “Where are you injured?” Worry pinched his voice.
The sharp tang of black powder filled the air, and a cloud of smoke hung around her head. She stepped away, into cleaner air. When she did, she felt a little stronger.
“I’m unhurt. Pray, pardon me, I—”
But James was already releasing her and pulling away. He whirled about, his sword outstretched, as if searching for remaining enemies. The tip was slick and red.
There were none who could fight. Only men groaning in various states of death.
They might have won, but at a terrible cost. Woory lay dead in a bloody puddle, shot through the shoulder and then stabbed to death. So much blood—it was hard to believe it came from one man.
Peter lay curled on his side, gasping, clutching at his neck, which was streaming blood. A second deep wound cut across his chest. Prudence took the kerchief from one of the wounded enemies and pressed it to his neck. James sat behind Peter’s shoulders and lifted his head.
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