by Cat Lindler
Ford watched the rape from a distance, his gut rebelling at the brutality. But he could do nothing to prevent the abuse, even should he try, and he could not afford to draw the dragoons’ suspicion. He had seen rape before; ‘twas an inevitable consequence of war. The deed disgusted him. Still, it was a penalty less severe than death. Mary was a grown woman with children, not a maid. She would suffer pain and humiliation, perchance even depression of the mind and body, but she would keep her life. He understood Tarleton’s current mood and considered the Richardsons fortunate to receive merely rape and destruction of property as retribution for aiding Marion.
When the two men finished with Mary and others surged forward, Tarleton, in seeming leniency, waved them away. But the Butcher had yet to finish with the Richardsons. He grasped the woman’s arm and hauled her to her feet. Her legs were shaky, and he was obliged to hold her upright. “Will you tell me now, madam?” he asked. “Or shall I be forced to have you flogged, as well?”
Mary lifted her head when she gained her balance and looked him straight in the eyes. “I have nothing to tell you.”
Silence reigned for a long moment, the only sounds those of wood popping and flames whistling while Tarleton regarded Mary with a glint of esteem that quickly vanished. Constricting his mouth into a taut slash, he shoved her into the hands of the dragoon standing behind her. “Tie her to the porch post and flog her,” Tarleton said, his voice rising over the raging bonfire.
The soldier dragged Mary to the post and tethered her hands with rope taken from the barn. He pulled her up until her toes skimmed the ground, then looped the hemp over a wooden hook for displaying flowering baskets. After ripping open her dress to bare her back, he stepped to one side with a riding crop in his hand.
“No,” Richard screamed as he squirmed beneath the foot holding him down. Two additional men ran over to subdue him.
Ford tensed his muscles to move forward, not to stop the flogging but to prevent young Richard from goading the dragoons into firing a pistol shot between his eyes. However, the men were able to restrain the young man, who had no idea how close he had come to death. Ford heard the shame and frustration in the ragged sobs coming from Richard’s throat and felt the boy’s pain.
When the flogging commenced, Ford glanced at the two girls, Emma in particular. She was his fiancée’s closest friend. The sisters huddled, their arms wound around each other. Their bodies shook as tears wet their faces. He hoped Tarleton would spend his anger on Mary and leave the girls untouched. Mary had grit. Even now, with the whip leaving bloody streaks on her back, she retained her dignity. He had to respect a woman with that sort of courage. He had met many men, both before and during the war, with much less.
Tarleton finally saw that seeking to break Mary Richardson’s silence would avail him naught. He ended the flogging and ordered her tormenter to cut her down. She sagged to her knees on the porch. Then stiffening her back and shoulders, she struggled to her feet and walked to her daughters. She enfolded them in her arms and soothed their tears. Ford shook his head in admiration. Her demonstration of fortitude reminded him of why he remained in America—why he fought so hard for the young country’s freedom from British tyranny. America bred women like Mary Richardson and men like Francis Marion.
Tarleton shouted orders over the din of the fire. Dragoons barricaded the barn doors with the remainder of the livestock still inside. Others lit torches from the bonfire and set the old, dry boards aflame. Bloody Ban mounted his horse, extended his arm, and pointed at the house. “Burn that, too,” he yelled above the howling flames. “I shall allow no house of sedition to stand.”
Men ran toward the house with torches, through the front door and lower rooms, touching the flames to drapes as they passed. By the time they emerged from the rear of the structure, fire consumed the wood walls and floors in a ruinous inferno.
The dragoons released Richard. He sped to his mother’s side and pulled her into the shelter of his chest. Their job completed, the soldiers climbed into their saddles and followed Tarleton out of the yard. Richard urged his mother and Rebecca away from the fires to the sanctuary of a folly standing beside the pond at the base of the sloping backyard.
Soon the yard was empty of soldiers and devoid of life but for three exceptions: Emma had slumped down on the stump the family used for killing chickens and stared blindly into the flames; a trio of dragoons failed to leave with Tarleton and lingered at the head of the drive; and Ford remained behind to ensure the Richardsons got to safety before he caught up with Tarleton.
From where he stood under the shadows of a beech tree, Ford glanced back and forth from the three green-coated men to Emma. He recognized the dragoons, Corporals Tavist and Jenks and Sergeant McReedy, as they slowly reined their horses around and rode them back into the drive. A worse trio of rogue soldiers he’d never met.
When hooves crunched on the shells, Emma turned her head. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she gazed up at the three men as they drew closer. They dismounted and strolled toward her, unmistakable maliciousness riding the sets of their mouths and gleaming in their eyes, and the air escaped her lungs in one hard rush. She shot to her feet and bolted. After several terrifying seconds, the dragoons caught her in a circle. A heavy, icy lump sat in her stomach.
“In all me born days,” McReedy said with a grin, “I hae never seen a bonnier lass. Ye must hae a wee bit o’ Scotland in yer blood wi’ all that red hair.” He favored her with a mocking bow. “What’s yer name, little lass?”
She stared at him and bit her lip to hold back a scream. Richard would come running should she cry out. This man would then shoot her brother. She could not take that chance.
“She’s got more meat on her than the mother,” Jenks observed. “Should make for a right cushy ride.”
“Leave me alone,” she hissed hoarsely.
Laughter exploded from Tavist. “Now why would we want to do that?” He cocked his head, and a cold grin stretched across his face. “Tell you what, miss, you give us what we want, and we’ll not harm you any further.”
“Look at those teats,” Jenks said as he flexed his calloused hands. “I can’t wait to bury my face in them.”
She gathered herself to run, and McReedy darted forward, seizing her wrists and dragging her toward the grass on the drive’s verge. She fought his every step in a daze.
“Hey!” Tavist said. He slapped a hand down on McReedy’s shoulder. “Who says you get to go first?”
“This here sergeant’s insignia,” the Scotsman replied, shrugging off the hand. “Privilege aff rank.”
When a man stepped out of the shadows, McReedy halted with Emma still twisting against him. His lips parted at the pistol pointed in his direction. Another pistol covered Jenks and Tavist. Emma fell still and gaped at Lord Montford.
“Awa an bile yer heid,” McReedy spat out. “What are ye doin’ here, Sinclair?”
“Major Sinclair,” the man said slowly. He advanced in a relaxed gait. “Let her go.” The gun twitched in a manner that caused McReedy’s eyes to widen.
“There’s three aff us an only one aff ye,” McReedy pointed out. “Ye hae only two shots.”
A grim smile touched the major’s lips. “Then I kill only two of you. Shall we draw cards to see who survives?”
“Let the girl go,” Tavist begged the sergeant. “There’s plenty others out there. I’m not taking lead for a bit of quim.”
“What do ye plan ta do wi’ the lass?” McReedy asked as he kept his eyes on the major.
Montford’s smile still held. “What do you think, Sergeant McReedy? Privilege of rank.”
McReedy chuckled. The other two broke into smiles, and their tense postures relaxed. McReedy dropped Emma’s wrists. “Dinna fash yirsel. We’ll jest wait fur ye, Major, an’ make sure ye get back ta the Legion wi nae trouble.”
“I would appreciate that.”
As Emma watched the men, she shivered and rubbed the marks on her wrists where McRe
edy had held them so tightly.
Montford turned his eyes to her. “Come here, girl,” he said in a low voice.
She breathed more easily until the major’s pistol swiveled from McReedy’s chest to hers.
“I said, come here. I shall not repeat myself again.” His voice became as sharp as his eyes.
She hesitated at Lord Montford’s threatening demeanor. She examined his face, straining to discern his thoughts. In spite of his harsh words and hard expression, she detected something in his eyes that both promised rescue and denoted warning. A light kindling in her breast, Emma guarded her excitement and cringed with lowered head until McReedy gave her a hard shove.
Montford slipped one pistol into his holster and stretched out a hand, catching her by her wrist and wrenching her to his side. As he backed up, he towed her alongside and kept the other pistol trained on the three dragoons.
“Hey! Where’re ye takin’ her?” McReedy shouted. “I want ta see how an officer does it.”
Montford tipped his head toward the woods over his shoulder. “To that copse behind me. I prefer to take my pleasures privately. And I vow I shall shoot the balls off the first man to enter those trees without my permission.”
Chapter 13
Willa had explored the swamps northwest of Georgetown from Kingston to Kingstree during her previous forays, including the Socastee salt marsh stretching along the northern coast. Nowhere had she uncovered signs of Marion’s camp. She now directed Cherokee due west, up the Sampit and to the Santee to follow the river to Ox Swamp, which lay between Jack’s Creek and Kingstree. From gossip of late, Frances Marion was raiding in that vicinity. Were she fortunate, she would come across his main encampment in Ox Swamp. British patrols steered clear of the treacherous stretch of cypress, water oaks, Spanish moss, and water moccasins. For that very reason, it held great possibilities.
Should Ox Swamp prove a disappointment, she would traverse Pudding Swamp, Chaps Swamp, and Flat Swamp on the route to Kingstree. Marion would not establish his headquarters farther west than Jack’s Creek. The upland country consisted of dry forest and open terrain, harboring fewer, smaller wetlands. Marion was a creature of the swamps and would remain in his favored environment. Her quarry was hiding in one of the four locations.
Willa elected to detour by way of Emma’s house on her way to Ox Swamp. She had missed her friend since Emma and her family moved from their Georgetown town house to the plantation in Clarendon County several months after General Richardson’s death. Gray Oaks lay too far from Willowbend for daily social calls. Dealing with her stepmother had drained Willa of all emotion, save anger, and she hungered for Emma’s support and understanding. She and Emma had grown up in each other’s pockets. She had fond memories of two girls in pigtails, playing together, mooning over planters’ sons, and making their first awkward forays into Society, side by side. Indeed, she was closer to Emma than to her own sisters. Now, after taking this dangerous, irrevocable step, she pined for that comforting connection, for someone to hold her hand and tell her she was not completely feebleminded.
To avoid the British and rebel factions traveling along the easier routes, Willa rode off the roads, across fields and meadows, and through pine forests. She moved briskly, sought out the shelter of hay ricks and barns some nights, and purchased food from the small farms she passed. On fair nights she rode on. But in all cases, she skirted the larger plantations where the owners might recognize her as Colonel Bellingham’s daughter.
On the night of the third day, she entered the far boundaries of Gray Oaks. While crossing the stubbled remains of harvested cornfields and still more than a mile from her destination, she smelled smoke. One lone cloud marred the clear night sky and obscured the stars over the plantation house.
“Hie,” she shouted. Whipping off her hat, she smacked it across Cherokee’s rump. He jumped forward, and his hooves ripped the corn roots from the ground. Flattening out his neck, he gave her the speed she requested.
When they drew near the woodlot that ranged from a narrow meadow on the eastern edge of the plantation house yard down to the creek, Willa pulled Cherokee to a halt. An orange glow and a plume of smoke spread across the sky above the trees. Voices—men’s voices—shouting and laughing, and further disturbing noises—pigs screaming, chickens squawking, the occasional horse neighing, or a pistol firing, reverberated through the night.
Who? Who would burn out the Richardsons? She had a list to choose from: Tories, British Regulars, dragoons, and the bane of every conflict, army deserters. Since Emma’s father had served honorably with the rebel militia and her brother had fought with the Continental army until he contracted malaria, she had no reason to believe partisans would attack the Richardson house.
Even if they were British soldiers or Loyalist militia, she could still be in danger. A lone woman taken by a military troop, regardless of whether or not they held the same political views, could lose her virtue at the very least and perhaps even forfeit her life. After all, men tended to be men, who even in the best of circumstances could scarcely be considered civilized. And from the cacophony of voices coming from the house while Cherokee picked his way along the path through the trees, that peculiar bloodlust that rode hand in hand with killing engulfed these men. That made them even more dangerous—quite possibly lethal.
A lack of normal sounds, owls hooting and night creatures scrambling in the weedy growth, characterized the woodlot. As she drew closer, the tumult from the house grew louder. She slid off Cherokee while still hidden in the shelter of the trees and gripped the side of his bit in her hand, leaving the reins knotted and draped over his neck. Then she stole through the fallen autumn leaves and ferns as Plato had taught her … on silent feet. Born Indian, Cherokee could walk as quietly as a spirit. As she closed in on the meadow, the activity in front of the house came into view. She squatted down and flashed a hand signal to Cherokee to remain still and silent, then slid to her stomach and squirmed through the tall weeds and flower stalks, making for a heap of uprooted tree stumps off to her right.
Once hidden behind the barrier, she came up on her knees. An opening provided by two large, twisted roots made the house and the men swarming around it visible.
A bonfire in the drive lit the yard nearly as brightly as daylight. Her heart beat in her throat, and her mouth became as dry as the floating ashes while the soldiers raped Mary, tied her to the porch, and beat her. When Tarleton and the dragoons rode off after setting the house and barn ablaze, Willa clambered to her feet and took two steps around the side of the stumps.
Three dragoons rode back into view. She dropped to the ground again and clutched at the dry grass as the men surrounded Emma. Reaching beneath her for a pistol, Willa grasped it in her hand and rose up on one knee, bracing her other hand on the ground beside her.
When one man caught Emma’s wrists and began to drag her away, Willa gripped the pistol tightly, swallowed hard, and stood up. All three men suddenly stilled. Their heads swiveled toward a spill of shadow beneath a tall beech. Willa shifted her eyes in the same direction, at the man armed with pistols stepping out of the darkness. A massive oak of a man in a green dragoon’s uniform. An officer’s uniform.
Montford?
Lord Montford was the only officer that size whom she had met, and her father had introduced her to most of Tarleton’s company at social functions. But his hat brim shadowed his face. She realized she was still on her feet and in plain view only when the officer and Emma began to back up. Willa fell to her stomach, replaced her pistol, and inched backward out of the meadow and into the woods. Once under the trees, she took hold of Cherokee’s bit and tugged him behind a tangle of blackberry canes, because Emma and the officer seemed to be heading directly toward her.
Ford leveled a cautious eye and a pistol on the three dragoons while he hurried Emma toward the woodlot. Once beneath the branches and far enough back into the woods that the men could no longer see them, he faced her.
“Scream,”
he said.
Emma opened her mouth and gave him a confused look. He took hold of her shoulders and shook her.
“Scream,” he demanded harshly. “So those men will not take it into their heads to investigate our little tête-à-tête. They are already suspicious of my intentions.”
She threw back her head and screamed.
Ford tilted his head, banged his hand against his ear, and grinned. “More than adequate. Now continue, Miss Richardson, but not quite so loudly. I’m besmirching your virtue … not scalping you. Should you feel so inclined, you might also feel free to throw in a few moans and pleas.”
Emma moaned, and groaned, and screamed, and pleaded with the trees to leave her with her virtue. Ford studied galls on an oak leaf, followed the path of a beetle trundling down the oak’s trunk, took off his hat and scratched his head, and picked some blackberries.
Emma gasped for breath. “Enough?” Her exertions hoarsened her voice.
Ford transferred his attention from an unusual mushroom to his victim. “I suppose so. That was what … ten minutes or so? It should have been long enough. You may stop now. I commend you on a sterling performance, if a trifle melodramatic, but worthy of the Bard himself. I’m certain it did the trick.” He slapped the hat back on his head. “Wait here until you no longer hear our horses on the drive. Then wait another thirty minutes. Your mother is in the folly out back. Make no attempt to join her, nor indeed move a muscle until the time expires. Then accompany your mother and siblings to safety. Have you somewhere to go?”
“I believe so,” she said with a smile. “I am ever so grateful for your rescue, my lord. I had the feeling you would not harm me.”
“Do not be too certain of that,” he mumbled as he unbuttoned the placket on the front of his breeches.
She drew in a sharp breath. “Wh-what are you doing?”
Ford looked at her. “I’m merely creating a false impression for the benefit of my companions, Miss Richardson,” he replied. “One tends to believe what one sees, even if what they see is misleading.” He released a breath when her features relaxed again. He’d had no intention of frightening her. Opening his coat, he pulled his shirttails from his waistband to hang down behind him. “Remember what I told you.” He left her side and strolled out of the woods and across the meadow to whistling and coarse comments from the waiting dragoons. As he walked, he leisurely repaired his wardrobe.
