Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

  Morgan cut off her bright dreams with eager lips that sent chills of revulsion rather than passion down her spine. When the kiss ended at last, he moved to nuzzle one of her ears, and she struggled to ignore the awful sensation of his steamy breath.

  "I love you, Morgan," Devon said loudly, as if to convince herself. "I promise you!"

  Chapter 4

  ***~~~***

  September 6, 1781

  Devon awoke before dawn, opening her eyes to darkness. Rolling onto one hip in her narrow rope bed, she scrutinized the stripe of sky that was visible where the curtains parted. Five o'clock, at least. It wouldn't be long until her mother called her.

  Time had passed slowly, and this new autumn found Devon restless and uncharacteristically unhappy. It had been only ten months since Morgan's departure to fight in Tyler's militia. Devon had clung to her guilt and her promise, reinforced by each glimpse of the feared Captain Raveneau. Whenever she heard that the Black Eagle was in port, she wandered the twisting lanes helplessly until she caught heart-pounding sight of the man who seemed to be her weakness. Yet she invariably stepped into an alley or doorway rather than face him. Each time, she returned to the shop more determined than ever to be true to her vow to Morgan. Raveneau was dangerous. Hadn't he kissed her and then never sought her out to apologize or even say good day? But Morgan was real and honest, and through the long, dull days working beside her mother, she forced herself to think of security and sincerity.

  Curiously tense, Devon pulled back her quilts and swung her feet onto the wide-planked floor. She poured water from the pitcher into the ewer and splashed her face.

  "Devon? Are you awake?" Deborah called from the next room.

  She made a face. There would be no chance to read the next scene of The Taming of the Shrew this morning.

  "Yes, Mother."

  "I think I heard a noise a few minutes ago. Did you hear it?"

  "No, but perhaps that's what woke me."

  "We will get an early start," Deborah decided. "You can churn the butter before we open the shop."

  Devon was pulling a clean yellow cotton dress over her head and was glad that her reply would be muffled in the material. "I can scarcely wait."

  "What's that?"

  "Nothing." Quickly she fastened up the front and reached for her hairbrush. Her mother was stirring in her room, and they emerged into the kitchen almost simultaneously. Devon started a fire and greased the griddle while Deborah stirred the batter for buckwheat cakes that had been rising during the night. While Devon put the kettle on over the fire, Deborah produced a small amount of butter along with a pitcher of maple syrup, payment from one of their customers for a bolt of linen.

  "I wonder what Morgan is doing this morning?" Devon mused aloud while they were eating. "I'll wager he has had some wonderful adventures this past year."

  "I'll wager he wishes he were back in Gadwin's Drug Shop where he belongs!" Deborah replied sarcastically. "When will you learn that that boy doesn't have your wild nature? I wish that he were my daughter and you were Gadwin's son!"

  "If that means I would be off fighting for independence in his place, then thank you very much!"

  Deborah stared at her coldly, and she felt a twinge of sadness to see how shadowed her mother's blue eyes had become. She could still be pretty! she thought, taking in the pale hair drawn severely back from Deborah's face. If she would only smile now and then!

  "Get on with your breakfast. There's butter to be churned."

  * * *

  Less than a half hour later, Devon began the tedious job, having first moved the churn to the window so that she might watch the street below and the river beyond. The sunrise was spellbinding, and she lost herself in the growing beauty of the eastern sky and thought idly about her life.

  In normal times, there was little doubt that she would have been married by now. Was it possible that she was nineteen years old? Devon sighed, wondering where the future would take her. She had received a letter from Morgan a few days ago—the third communication since his departure. His regiment was preparing to march to Virginia. "It seems that everyone is going to Yorktown," he wrote. "Something big is in the air, but no one is quite sure what it is." He went on at length about the weather and his passion for Devon. She yearned to hear stories of the war, tales of Morgan's thrilling adventures and narrow escapes. Still, it was wonderful to read his thoughts and to know he was well. Perhaps the war would toughen him.

  Devon sorely missed Morgan, yet this last solitary year had changed her. Their daydreams in the meadow and his urgent kisses seemed part of a long-ago past. She was anxious for him to return to New London so that they might renew their bonds before time dissolved them entirely. The future they had planned was the only ray of hope that she could cling to during the long days in the shop. It was increasingly difficult to escape Deborah's watchful eye.

  Cannon shots suddenly echoed from Fort Griswold. Devon listened—three shots, the signal for a returning privateer. A few minutes later there were three more shots, which was curious, especially since no vessels could be seen approaching. Her stomach tightened in alarm. She had noticed men riding south along the Bank, and now another group went galloping past the shop.

  Devon raced downstairs, nearly colliding with her mother.

  "You can't be finished yet!" Deborah accused.

  "Something is wrong. I can feel it! I knew it when I woke up this morning!" With that, she ran outside, just as Nick came thundering down Bank Street on his best horse. She could read his face even before he dismounted.

  "It's the British, isn't it?"

  "Yes, child, it is. There's a whole fleet—two dozen vessels or more—at the mouth of the harbor."

  "But the signal—"

  "They must have added the third shot to fool us, though God only knows how they learned our signals. It may only be a plundering party, after stock, but I doubt it."

  "Nick, where are you going?"

  "To Fort Trumbull, of course! To meet those damned lobsterbacks head-on!"

  He gave her a hug, then was off. Devon lifted her skirts and raced to the river to get a better view. A cold chill ran down her spine at the sight of the imposing British ships bearing down on New London, and she immediately returned to the shop to warn her mother.

  "I am not going anywhere," Deborah stated flatly.

  * * *

  Minutes stretched into hours as New London frantically tried to evacuate. All around the Linen and Pewter Shop townspeople harnessed horses and hurriedly loaded valuables into wagons. Devon, unable to reason with her mother, retreated to the top floor to watch the chaos on the Beach as the privateers hoisted sail in a wild effort to escape before the British fleet could trap them. Devon was not surprised to see the Black Eagle sailing upriver first.

  Several neighbors took a moment to run to the Linen and Pewter Shop to make certain that the Widow Lindsay intended to leave. Devon watched hopefully as first Dr. Wolcott, then Jonathan Starr, and finally Titus Hurlbutt entered the door, but she expected no miracle. Deborah had been pulled along during the false-alarm evacuations, but now, as the enemy landed only a few miles away, she had no intention of turning her back on her shop. She seemed to feel that her cold stare would chase any intruders away.

  News spread rapidly. By nine o'clock Devon had heard that half the British had landed at White Beach, just below the lighthouse, while the rest had reached Groton Point, south of Fort Griswold across the river. She could see the shots coming from the Groton fort, aimed at the enemy vessels. Was there a chance that they might be frightened off?

  Then she spotted the boatloads of men from Fort Trumbull crossing the Thames to join forces with the soldiers at Fort Griswold. So quickly! They must have been hopelessly outnumbered, Devon thought, feeling ill. She ran downstairs to relay these facts to her mother but was immediately distracted by a familiar figure on horseback. It was Jonathan Brooks, a boy from nearby Bradley Street whom she knew and liked well.

  Dashin
g outside, Devon shouted, “Wait!”

  "I can't stop! Father has ordered me to hurry home and put the horse in the barn."

  "Jonathan, you must tell me what you know. Mother won't leave! Did you see them? How many are there?"

  "Yes, I saw them. Jenny here got caught in a mire while I was trying for the heights. A shot passed right over my head as I got down to free her! There are hundreds of redcoats, Devon, and they've split up. Half of those landing at White Beach made for the fort, but the rest are on their way to town. Father and about a hundred others have hidden along Town Hill Road and have managed to hit a few of them, but it looks bad. I've really got to be off now. I'm to wait for word from Father at home. You should get away! The redcoats will be upon New London soon!"

  "Thank you, Jonathan. Good luck!"

  Jenny galloped off in a cloud of dust, leaving Devon standing on a nearly deserted Bank Street.

  Back in the shop, Deborah stood firm. "I will not leave my life's work to be plundered by those mad British. Let them ransack the other shops, but I will stay here to protect what is mine."

  Devon wanted to wail, What about me? Does my life mean less to you than this pitiful shop?

  At that moment they both heard a loud commotion outside. Devon ran to the window just in time to see a few dozen redcoats round the turn. They were laughing, several carrying bottles and drinking from them.

  As she watched, the group split up, kicking in locked doors. Crashing glass and heavy thumps sounded from the invaded houses. Devon went sick with panic as two of the soldiers, each carrying a bottle of gin, started toward the Linen and Pewter Shop. She turned to her mother with wild fear in her eyes.

  "They are coming, Mother! Two drunken redcoats with guns! Let us go out the back. There's still time!"

  "No." Deborah stood next to a neat display of her handmade canopies, her hands spread protectively over the white net.

  "Well, we can hide, then! Hurry!"

  Devon was looking around frantically when the door flew open and the two British soldiers staggered across the threshold.

  "Blimey, what a surprise! Looks like we picked the right address, Smythe!" one of them shouted, giving his companion an elbow in the ribs. Smythe seemed not to hear; he stared at Devon. Her red-gold hair haloed a face flushed and wide-eyed with fear, and her body was frozen but for the agitated heaving of her lovely bosom.

  "I want that one, Dobbs," he declared, pointing.

  Dobbs stuck out his chin. "Hardly fair, old boy. Didn't give me a chance to discuss it!" Smythe was a surly sort, however, and Dobbs had no wish to provoke him. The other female was older, but rather good-looking and clean enough, he thought.

  "I'll thank you gentlemen to leave my shop," Deborah told them icily.

  Dobbs laughed heartily at this and took another swig of gin as he crossed the room. "I'll thank you to come upstairs with me, darling!" His fingers touched the pistol he wore. "Wouldn't want to have to persuade you."

  He was a tall, thin man with sinewy muscles and he easily pulled her off toward the stairway. Devon watched in horror, feeling as though her world were going up in flames of terror.

  "Mama!" she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh, Mama, no!"

  The last glimpse she had of her mother would be scorched permanently in her memory. Deborah's perpetually bitter expression had vanished. Devon never called her Mama—only Jamie had—but in that moment all the lost years and love flowed back between mother and daughter.

  "Devon, my baby—" Deborah's voice was tender, surprised, sad. Dobbs yanked her around the corner and there was a long clattering noise as he forced her upstairs.

  Smythe caught Devon's shoulder and she turned to face him. Wearing a white wig and a well-tailored red, black, and white uniform, Smythe had a passable appearance, yet his bloodshot eyes were narrowed in a way that made Devon shudder. Seeing her reaction, his mouth twisted in a mirthless smile.

  Grasping each shoulder, Smythe pulled her against his body and kissed her brutally. Devon could taste the gin on his thick tongue and was horrified to feel something swelling against her belly.

  When he began to pull at her bodice, Devon pleaded, "Please! Stop—"

  Smythe grinned. Grasping the froth of lace trimming the neckline, he ripped the gown halfway to her waist. Devon sobbed as he pushed her backward across the table, atop the net canopies, and pinned her wrists. His mouth sought the sweet young breasts but she wriggled to elude him. Grunting with frustration, he bit each one in turn, pleased by her cry of pain. Her senses began to dull. There was no sound from upstairs. Naturally, her mother would not allow herself to scream, Devon thought. She closed her eyes, tears streaming, as Smythe pulled up her skirts, fumbling for the tender, secret place no man had seen. He was breathing heavily. Oh, merciful God... please...

  It was not God who delivered her, but the enemy. Suddenly there were voices and a step in the doorway.

  "Smythe, damn you, what are you up to? Leave this play for later. Come on, then—"

  "You can't expect me to stop now!" Smythe whined. "Have a turn yourself, Lieutenant. I won't tell. Just let me have my own!"

  "No! Let the girl up. If you stay here another minute, you'll be burned to death for your pleasure. We're putting the torch to every building on this street, and Captain Stapleton is waiting."

  Smythe was furious; Devon dazed. The lieutenant departed and Smythe left her bent across the table. He stamped over to the stairway, calling, "Dobbs! They're burning the town. We've got to get out!"

  He returned to Devon and tried to pull her across the room to the door.

  "My mother!" she screamed. "You must make certain she’s coming! Mama! Hurry!" Her voice grew shrill, hysterical, until Smythe slapped her roughly across her mouth. When Devon began struggling in earnest, he cuffed her again with enough force to make her neck snap back, dazing her.

  She was in such shock as he dragged her outside that she forgot her gaping bodice. Acrid smoke burned her eyes. Flames danced through houses, shops, warehouses, and barns all along the Bank, spreading as she watched. Soldiers were carrying torches on their way to the Beach, laughing over the prospect of plundering the warehouses there. A young boy in uniform ran to Smythe to offer his torch.

  "The lieutenant said to wait 'til you came out," he piped, ogling Devon.

  Smythe grabbed the torch and tossed it inside the Linen and Pewter Shop, onto Deborah's handmade canopies. The fire roared up as Devon began to cry out again, choking back tears. "Mama! Please, hurry, hurry!" Helplessly, she crumpled against her captor. "My mama!"

  "Come on, then, wench. I'll have you yet," Smythe growled. The boy ran along beside them as they followed Bank Street northward. Devon stumbled and wept craning her neck to see the shop, her home, hoping to see her mother and Dobbs emerge. The entire front of the building was engulfed in tangerine flames before they had turned a corner.

  A raw, angry survival instinct soon replaced her trembling numbness, but Devon went on pretending that she was in shock. Real hatred, unknown to her until today, filled her with clever courage. As they drew near to the rendezvous spot where Captain Stapleton and the other men waited, she could sense Smythe's carelessness. His grip on her arm loosened as he gulped gin and conversed vulgarly with the boy who accompanied them. Through the flames and smoke the battle at Fort Griswold was progressing, and after Smythe assessed Devon's blank stare and shuffling walk, he turned to peer across the Thames.

  At that instant Devon snapped her arm free, raised her skirts, and started running.

  Black smoke scorched her lungs as she ran on and on through the curving, blazing streets. Unable to look back for fear of seeing Smythe, she just kept running, turning random corners.

  Three redcoats approached from the south, so Devon ran in the opposite direction. She knew, without consciously deciding, just where she might find refuge. The British soldiers had begun chasing her, but one by one they gave up, dulled by alcohol and fatigue. Devon clambered up a stone-reinforced bank a
nd disappeared into a thick stand of trees. Quickly she chose a sturdy sycamore and ascended with the agility of a cat. Below and to the north lay the Burial Ground, where some of New London's earliest inhabitants rested under arched stone markers. Devon relaxed for a moment, but then spied a man on horseback beside the Winthrop tomb. She leaned forward for a closer look. A redcoat! And he was an officer, immaculately bewigged and uniformed. The man was watching the last moments of the battle at Fort Griswold, across the Thames. Devon pulled herself forward along the branch in an effort to see the face of this enemy who so coolly supervised the battle. The commanding officer? she wondered. The man responsible for her mother's death, her degradation? And Nick, over at the fort, was he dead, too?

  A twig snapped against her knee and the British officer glanced around. Devon held her breath, felt it burn her lungs. This man was the most infamous traitor of all—Benedict Arnold!

  She longed to jump to the ground and claw his face. He had betrayed not only his country but now his own town as well. Only Arnold could have known the Thames so well, could have been so familiar with the habits of the harbor towns. No wonder the alarm from Fort Griswold had been botched! The traitor had to be certain the cards were dealt in his favor before the match began.

  He sat astride his horse, elegant and clean as he watched the action at Groton Heights through narrowed eyes. Devon seethed with repressed fury, knowing that she must remain silent.

  She lost all sense of time. The early foliage protected her from the sun. The fires in New London died down; the Parade was destroyed, its charred remains smoking dismally. Devon could see all the storehouses along the Beach and the Bank standing open while redcoats and Hessians carried off what remained of the contents. The store that had held the goods from the Hannah, the prize ship which had been captured just two months ago, stood deserted, its doors gaping open.

  Her eyes burned and watered from the smoke; her limbs ached. It hurt too much to think about her mother or Nick or anyone else who might be dead, so she forced herself to stare at Arnold until hatred overcame grief.