by Henke, Shirl
Her eyes held his, troubled and sad yet tender. “I'll dream of this afternoon,” she replied, then turned and vanished inside.
Her sleeping robes had been carefully rearranged, pulled up on the pallet, but the night air was much too warm for her to want furs swathing her already heated flesh. I burn for him.
As she unbraided her hair and combed it, Barbara sat pondering what she should do. Was Devon right? Could he never return to the white world with her? Although her time with the Indians had been an adventure, she could not imagine spending her life here. She thought of bringing Devon in his ranger s rifle shirt, buckskin pants, and moccasins to meet her brother. Monty would be aghast. Not only a colonial, but part Indian as well!
Tears blurred her vision as she realized the hopelessness of their love. At least for now, for a few more days or weeks or months, she would cling to her happiness, taking advantage of each precious moment with Devon Blackthorne. She yanked back the soft beaver pelts mounded up on her pallet and started to crawl onto the bed. A sharp hiss rent the stillness of the room.
Barbara jumped away from the dark pile of pelts. The room was unlit except for the bright moonlight pouring in from the windows. She seized the first weapon she could, a straw broom from the corner, and peered into the darkness.
The sinuous movement of a snake caught her eye as it slithered free of the pelts and glided across the pallet. Barbara clutched the broom in a death grip and screamed as loud as she could, over and over as the snake opened its white mouth and hissed again.
She had no idea how long it took before Devon bounded up the ladder, knife gleaming in his hand. He pushed her behind him and threw the blade in a silvery arc. The heavy knife sank into the snake's head, pinning it cleanly to the soft pallet. It writhed a moment, then was still.
”A cottonmouth,” he said softly.
“They're poisonous, aren't they?”
“Yes, very. They're also known as water moccasins, and they don't live away from wet areas, certainly not in the dry second story of a house.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “You mean someone put it here...to kill me?” Panther Woman!
Although he did not say it aloud, Barbara knew Devon was thinking just as she was. By this time Kills the Bear, Mocking Bird and most of their household had crowded around the ladder below. Devon's uncle, Tall Crane, climbed up and watched as his nephew freed the dead snake from his blade and tossed it out the window.
“I think the lady would be safer if you returned her to Savannah as quickly as possible,” he said sadly. “I will speak with the brother of Panther Woman in the morning. He will see to her chastisement.”
Chapter Fourteen
August, 1780, Blackthorne Hill
Dr. Witherspoon frowned and shook his head. “You've got to stay abed, Robert. Between this fever and your heart condition, you'll be dead in a fortnight if you don't.”
“How can I stay abed,” he drawled sarcastically, “while my son and heir is off gallivanting who knows where? On trading business, he says. Who's supposed to run this plantation? Most of our able-bodied men have either sneaked off to join those treasonous rebels or have been taken by the royal militia. There's no one to take charge of a bloody thing! Half my indentureds, even some of the slaves, have run away.” Pale and trembling, Robert fell back against the pillows piled high behind his back.
The old physician turned to Madelyne, who waited quietly at the foot of the bed. ”I have some medicine here that I want you to see that this old goat takes—pry his jaws open with the smithy's tongs if you must and pour it down his throat.” Robert scowled blackly but Noble ignored him.
“What is it?” Madelyne asked, reaching for the small jar filled with what looked to be tree-bark chips.
“Rare stuff. Comes all the way from South America. I got it through a man I know in the West Indies. It's called cinchona and is supposed to arrest malarial fever. Damned expensive and hard to come by, or I'd have tried it before.”
“Using me as your bloody guinea pig, eh, Noble?” Robert asked crossly.
The doctor turned his myopic gaze on Robert and said sternly, “You're to drink this. It might just break these fevers and chills. Worth a try. You've got a chance, at least—more than I can say for most of those poor devils dying like flies on battlefields across the South.”
At the mention of the war, Madelyne paled, thinking of Quint, gone these past weeks without a word. Could he be ill or injured? He's a traitor. You'd be well rid of him. But the thought of life without him caused a squeezing pain around her heart. “How do I prepare this cin—cinchona?”
Witherspoon nodded to Robert as he latched his satchel and escorted Madelyne out into the hallway. He closed the heavy door and turned to her with a grave look on his face. “He's bad, Madelyne. The chills and fever have accelerated his heart, which has been weak for years already.” He measured out some of the bark. “Steep about this much in a cup of water. He'll complain it's bitter, but make certain he drinks it all. Morning and night for the next three days or so. I'll be back to check on him by then.”
As she took the medicine from him, Madelyne thought the old physician looked exhausted. “You've been working too hard, Dr. Witherspoon. Come have a cup of tea and some of Delphine's fresh cakes before you leave.”
He took her hand and patted it. “You'd best not be talking to me about working too hard, young lady. You've been carrying a heavy load with Quint gone and Robert down ill.”
“I’ll be fine.” The dark circles beneath her eyes belied her words.
Noble patted his small paunch and said, “I’m afraid Delphine's cooking isn't what the doctor ordered. I must decline your gracious offer and head up the post road toward Augusta. Seems Pickens and his men have had a little run-in with some royal militia. Both sides could use some patching up, I'd warrant.”
“You be careful, Doctor,” Madelyne admonished. Over the past months she had grown fond of the dour old physician with his acerbic wit. He always seemed able to walk a path between Robert and Quint, defending each to the other, yet retaining the friendship of both. She wondered what his politics were but never asked him, nor did the old man volunteer whether he was rebel or loyalist.
After Noble rode off, Madelyne walked around the side of the house and entered the kitchen where Delphine held absolute sovereignty. She gave the big black woman instructions about the cinchona, knowing Robert would be far less likely to argue with Delphine than with her. She returned to her chores, which this morning included supervising the making of soap. Madelyne eagerly took on the overseeing of the hot, laborious outdoor tasks that Mrs. Ogilve found beneath her.
Working from dawn to dusk, Madelyne fell into her lonely bed each night, too exhausted to dwell on her moral dilemma. She was married to a traitor, yet she could never betray him to the fate a traitor deserved.
Cousin Andrew visited frequently and was so solicitous and kind that she had almost blurted out her distress to him on several occasions, but she knew that would be disastrous. He'd be heartbroken that his own cousin had betrayed king and country. Then he, too, would be caught in the same tortured coil. No, he was too good and loyal a friend to lay such a burden upon.
She forced her grim thoughts aside. I'll visit Polly when the soap is set. Maybe she can cheer me.
In the past weeks of Quintin's absence, Madelyne had taken to making occasional visits to the Golden Swan. Polly was a wonderful confidant, buoying up her spirits when Robert's sarcastic coldness left her low. It was Polly who had urged her to face down Agnes Ogilve and assume control of the household. She had yet to wrest the bookkeeping ledgers and house slaves from beneath the old woman's iron fist, but she had taken command of all the rest of the domain.
Blackthorne Hill was run like a small fiefdom, with a dairy for making butter and cheese as well as more than fifty cows to be milked daily. Eggs had to be gathered from the poultry sheds, and the smokehouse larder had to be inspected, as did the pickling barrels in which beef and pork
were cured.
Today a half-dozen huge iron kettles sat in the yard between the kitchen and the big house. The tallow and lye were bubbling slowly above carefully tended fires. Madelyne took a huge iron ladle from one of the slaves and stirred one kettle to judge how soon the soap could be set, a task she had watched both her aunts perform often since childhood.
Just then, the sound of drunken whooping and pounding hooves cut through the bucolic sounds of the plantation. Madelyne looked toward the road that led up from the river. A dozen men, roughly dressed and heavily armed, came thundering around the side of the big house, riding roughshod across her fine flower beds.
When she saw their leader, her furious anger was overlaid with fear. There was no mistaking the fat girth and scarred face of the late Ephraim Malvern's companion, Luke. He reined in his horse, dismounted, and swaggered toward her.
“Watch ‘em, Miz Madelyne,” Delphine said contemptuously from the kitchen door, 'They's outliers. Steal from both sides. Ain't got no faith wif neither.”
“Well, look what I done found now. And this time without any menfolk around to protect her.” Luke's eyes scanned the yard furtively. “Where's yer dog?” He stroked his duck's-foot pistol.
Madelyne prayed Gulliver would stay in the woods with Jed and the boys, hunting deer. “I've protection enough from the likes of you, Luke. You'd best leave Blackthorne Hill while you're still able to sit a horse.” She was proud of how steady her voice sounded.
Luke guffawed and spat from the side of his mouth, leaving a puddle of tobacco and saliva dripping from a peony bush. ”Oh, I'll be able to sit a horse—after I ride you, you uppity Tory bitch.” He stepped closer and reached for her.
Instinctively Madelyne's hands tightened around the iron ladle, and she flung boiling soap across his face. He staggered back, screaming and cursing, his fists balled in his eyes. Before the other men could dismount, Madelyne raced to the kettle nearest the horses, yelling to one of the big slaves, “Help me tip it, Ethan!” She wrapped her petticoats around her hands like potholders and heaved against the side of the iron kettle. Ethan put his shoulder to it and it overturned, pouring a river of slippery liquid soap across the grass.
The ground sloped slightly downhill toward the riders, whose terrified horses began to whinny and dance, then rear up as they struggled for purchase on the soap-slicked grass. The whole yard erupted in pandemonium, with guns going off wildly as horses fell, dumping their riders. Many of the beasts themselves were down, some rolling on their hapless owners.
Andrew Blackthorne and several of his men approached the big house from the opposite side. Hearing the commotion, he quickly dismounted, cursing as he readied his boxlock pistols. Signaling the men with him to follow, he charged down the hill. “Madelyne, I'm coming,” he yelled as he raced toward her, gun raised. But before he could get to the scene of the debacle, Gulliver came racing from the trees and dived at his back, sending him sprawling facedown across the ground.
Andrew struggled to break his fall as he neared the soapy grass—to no avail. He slid like a greased pig into the chaos of flailing hooves and swearing men. Just as he narrowly missed colliding with a downed horse, one of his pistols discharged into the melee, creating even more havoc. As if his entry were not already ignominious enough, Madelyne's dog came at him barking and snarling.
Before the dog could do grievous injury, Madelyne's voice penetrated the cacophony and Gulliver quickly left Andrew and made his way to her side.
By this time, Luke and his boys were straggling from the yard, leading their terrified horses from the scene of destruction under the watchful eyes of Andrew's men, who stayed well clear of the mire. Most of the outliers had lost or discharged their firearms and all were covered with greasy soap, giving their rifle shirts and pants a peculiar shine in the morning sunlight.
As they limped away, Madelyne knelt solicitously by Andrew, who to his abject mortification was crying from the burning lye soap that had been rubbed into his eyes. He sat up cursing soundly as he contemplated the ruination of his fine clothes. If his soap-clogged pistol had been in working order, he doubtless would have discharged it squarely between Gulliver's eyes!
“Cousin Andrew, let me help you. I'm so grateful you and your men arrived when you did. Please forgive Gulliver. The sound of the shots must have frightened him. I can't imagine why he attacked you!” She placed his slippery arm around her shoulder, and together they struggled from the yard toward the house.
“Just so you're safe, Cousin. I'm glad I decided to ride out hunting this morning. When I heard the commotion, I rode here immediately. It's dangerous for you alone with Robert ill and Quintin gone.”
“You're kind to worry, Cousin Andrew,” she said as she helped him to a chair in the rear parlor and then issued crisp commands for bathwater to be readied for him. As she looked out the window at the ruins of the peony bushes and grass, fury infused her. Damn you, Quintin Blackthorne! Where are you?
Andrew was speaking. Madelyne turned apologetically. “I'm sorry, Cousin. I'm afraid I wasn't attending. What did you say?”
“I said, if you'd been armed properly you could have sent those men off before they entered the yard. Lots of ladies living in the back country have learned to handle weapons during these turbulent times. I would be happy to instruct you.”
Madelyne's Aunt Isolde had already taught her the finer points of marksmanship, but poor Andrew looked so woebegone and earnest that she had not the heart to tell him that. She smiled brightly, always glad of his company. ”I think that's a splendid idea, Andrew. Perhaps we could begin tomorrow?”
“I'll be here, dear lady, have no fear. You'll never want for protection while I draw breath.”
* * * *
Quintin rode toward Blackthorne Hill, letting Domino pick his way slowly through the undergrowth that encroached upon the seldom-used trail. He had a great deal to ponder. As if his personal life were not in enough chaos, the war was approaching disaster. British forces seemed to be triumphant across the Carolinas.
There was only one American commander left in the southern theater with brains and discipline enough to win, and Quint had just ridden away from that man—Colonel Francis Marion. When he'd reached General Horatio Gates's encampment, his information and advice were studiously ignored by the new American commander in the South. That was where he'd met the French Huguenot. Marion, too, had been ignored.
In spite of his dark mood, Quintin grinned ruefully. Francis did not exactly cut an imposing figure to command instant attention. He was thin and short, even scraggly, with stringy black hair and a great beak of a nose set in a small, intense face. But there was much more to the man on closer inspection. His mouth was resolute, and his black eyes burned with the light of keen intelligence. He was soft-spoken and cautious, but when he voiced an opinion it invariably made sense. He and Quintin had been drawn together immediately in their opposition to the arrogant and impetuous Gates, full of himself ever since his triumph at Saratoga nearly three years earlier.
When Marion asked to be allowed to return to guerilla fighting in the Carolina back country—skirmishing British supply lines and burning ferries and bridges—Gates quickly agreed, glad to be rid of the troublesome fellow. Quintin had joined Marion at his camp on the Santee River and participated in a number of raids.
Outraged, one British officer they captured had blurted out, “You do not sleep and fight like gentlemen, but waylay us like savages from behind trees!”
To Marion's way of thinking, that was the only sort of war that made sense. Quintin agreed and wished to remain and fight for the patriot cause, even though he had eaten little but sweet potatoes, slept on nothing but the damp, swampy earth and had scant opportunity for the amenities of a toilette in the past month.
A few days before he departed, dispatches arrived with grisly news. Gates had led his men against superior forces and was cut to pieces at Camden. One of the Revolution's most noble and skillful officers, Baron deKalb, was kille
d in the engagement. A scant two days later, that bloody butcher, Banastre Tarleton, led his battle-hardened dragoons against the Carolina partisan Sumter at Fishing Creek. Tarleton caught the ignorant popinjay Sumter bathing in the stream! Although the rebel narrowly escaped with his life, more than eight hundred Americans were captured or killed.
Marion had kept the news from his men, swearing Quintin to secrecy and pleading with him to return to Georgia and resume his intelligence work.
“A damned bloody spy, that's what I am. God, how I sicken of the deception.” He rubbed his eyes, then felt the stubby bristle on his jaw. He would at least enjoy the luxury of a bath, a shave, and a decent meal. And then there was the matter of his wife. What would he do about Madelyne? It seemed nothing in his life was going as he wished.
He went over the excuse for his long absence again. Part of it was true. He had been caught between Cornwallis's and Gates's armies. The fact that he was a participant on the rebel side he would omit in recounting for Robert his business trip to Wilmington.
Convincing the old man would not be difficult. Robert was arrogantly certain that Quintin shared his disdain for the rebellion. That still left him with the problem of what to do with Madelyne. She was as much a loyal Tory as Robert or Devon. She knew his secret and could betray him. The irony of having to trust his life to the whims of a woman did not escape him.
When Blackthorne Hill came into view, Quintin felt the same emotional pull he always did after a long absence. I may not be Robert's blood, but I share his obsession with the land.
He kicked Domino into a canter and headed for the stables. As he rode around the back of the kitchen he noticed an enormous patch of dead grass. The area, once green and filled with flowering bushes, looked as if a herd of horses had been driven between the big house and the kitchen, or a battle had been fought there! He continued on to the stable with a sense of foreboding tightening his guts.
