by Cat Lindler
Richard had arrived earlier for a brief visit. He and Mary were exchanging news in animated voices from their seats on the sofa while Emma listened from a nearby chair. Plato and Jwana played a lively hand of cards at a table along the wall. Rebecca had taken the twins upstairs to the nursery to bathe and dress them for bed.
“We have visitors,” Willa said as she sagged into an armchair.
“Friends?” Mary questioned.
“I daresay that is not likely to be the case. They are on horseback and carrying torches.”
“Oh, no.” Mary lifted a hand to her mouth, painful memories of the night Tarleton burned her home surfacing on her features.
Richard sprang to his feet. The muscles in his face tightened. “How many?”
Willa shook her head. “I cannot tell. But more than one.”
“Have you weapons in the house? My rifle is in the vestibule with my saddlebags. We shall need more than one gun if we hope to drive them off.”
“I got a musket an’ pistol in de barn,” Plato said. He threw down his hand of cards and surged to his feet.
Willa hauled herself from the chair and issued orders like a general. “Plato, leave by the back way and retrieve your guns.” He took off at a run. “Jwana, go upstairs and dress the children for travel in the event we are forced to leave the house.” The maid hurried from the room, her shoes scuffling on the risers as she hustled up the stairs. “Accompany me,” Willa said to the others.
She preceded Richard, Emma, and Mary into her father’s study. The gun cabinet stood along one wall. She searched the desk drawers for the key, then slammed them shut, picked up a stone paperweight, and smashed the lock on the cabinet doors. They swung open. “Papa was fond of hunting and gun collecting,” she said over her shoulder. “He kept an arsenal in here.”
She pulled out guns and passed them to reaching hands behind her. Three well-used flintlock muskets, known as the “Brown Bess.” An ancient snaphaunce and an antique German wheel-lock musket. Richard set aside the two older weapons.
Next came two of the newer 75-caliber, smoothbore flintlock muskets, single-shot muzzle-loaders with fixed, fourteen-inch bayonets. She also produced a Kentucky long rifle with a grooved barrel, the most accurate of the collection. Richard grinned when he saw it. Then came the newest breech-loaded flintlock rifle, a rarity in the colonies. Six flintlock smoothbore dragoon pistols followed, three fowling pieces, and a set of French long-barrel dueling pistols. She drew forth from a drawer assorted hunting knives, and from a case on a shelf at the cabinet top emerged cavalry long sabers, a dueling épée, and a cutlass that looked as if it had come from a pirate ship.
Willa turned around and dusted off her hands. Richard braced his hands on his hips as he examined the array of weaponry. “I say, we could hold off King George himself with this lot.” He cocked his brows. “Have you shot and powder?”
Willa dropped to her knees and opened the lower doors of the cabinet. She tossed out bag after bag of black powder cartridges, shot, and balls.
They reconvened in the parlor. Plato returned with his weapons. Jwana and Rebecca brought the twins downstairs and settled them on blankets near the hearth. “Pack provisions, Rebecca,” Willa told the young girl, “and stay with the children. Try to keep them quiet. Should these men burn us out, we shall take refuge in the slave quarters, that is, if they are kind enough to leave us any shelter at all.” She ran to the window looking out on the drive and pulled aside the drapes. Torchlight glowed at the end of the long expanse of crushed shell. The horsemen had paused there.
“Lock up the rest of the house,” Willa said to Mary, then threw a questioning look at the others. “I know of Plato’s and Richard’s shooting abilities. Quinn, have you experience with weapons?”
Quinn looked affronted. “Indeed. I was accounted a crack shot with a pistol when I was younger. I also held the title among the servant class in London for the deadliest blade.” He selected three pistols, a saber, and the dueling épée and placed them to one side. After an additional look of concentration, he scooped up the cutlass.
“I shall handle the muskets, Willa, if you can shoot that long rifle,” Richard stated. “Mary and Emma can reload.”
Willa picked up the rifle and loaded it with an expertise that brought a surprised look even to Richard’s face, though he had known her for years and was familiar with her affinity for firearms. Mary and Emma began to load the muskets.
Jwana huffed under her breath. “I kin shoot, too. Plato taught me.” She reached over Richard. “Give me one’a dem muskets,” she said. “I be takin’ a pistol, too, if’n dey comes close ‘nough fer me ta use it.”
Willa distributed the knives and the other sabers, keeping one sword and a pistol for herself. Richard had his own saber, hanging in a scabbard from his belt. Willa charged upstairs and found her personal knives, the ones balanced for her hand and throwing arm. She sheathed the saber and huge hunting knife at her waist, hid the other weapons about her body, and returned to the parlor.
Richard was keeping an eye on the riders, who had moved no farther up the drive. He counted six horses and conveyed that information to the rest of the company. “They are coming,” he warned when he sent his gaze back to the slit in the drapes.
Hooves striking the broken shells reverberated from outside. “Miss Bellingham!” a voice bellowed.
“I shall see what they want,” Willa said as she moved into the foyer and laid her rifle beside the door. She removed the sword and scabbard and placed them next to the rifle. Richard followed her and settled a hand on her arm.
“Is that a wise move?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps our visitors are the parson and his family come to call. I cannot kill innocent people.”
He snorted a laugh. “I doubt any innocent person would ride out in company at night with torches to light their way. Nevertheless, I’m of the same opinion. We should determine what they want before we use force. I shall be at the window beside the door in the event you experience trouble.”
Willa drew in a deep breath and opened the door. As she stepped out onto the porch, she left the door unlatched behind her.
Rather than the parson and his family, she faced six heavily armed men carrying pine-pitch torches and garbed in buckskin and homespun like partisan militiamen. They wore wide-brimmed hats low on their heads, and masks covered their faces. A tremor skimmed across Willa’s shoulders. This was not a social visit.
One man spurred his horse, a large, ugly brown beast, forward while the other men hung back. He stopped a few yards before the porch steps. Willa slipped her hand through the slit in her skirt pocket and gripped the pistol.
“Miss Wilhelmina Bellingham?”
She gave a curt nod. “Indeed. I am Miss Bellingham. State your business.”
He leaned forward in the saddle, propped his palms on the saddle rise, and ran an insolent gaze down her figure. “You’re a right pretty one, ain’t you?”
She pulled her spine straight and tightened her grip on the gun. The wind picked up twigs from the lawn and hurled them across the drive. One caught the man’s horse in the flank, and it skittered to the side. He pulled up on the reins.
I could shoot him right now. He would not know what hit him. A tempting notion were five other rough-looking men not sitting motionless on their horses and watching the meeting with intense concentration.
“He didn’t say you was so pretty,” the man said in his gruff voice once he brought his mount under control.
“Who?”
“Captain Ford. He talks about his gal all the time but never said what a looker you was.”
Her pulse doubled at the name. Were these men partisans, acquaintances of Brendan? She nearly released her hold on the pistol. But a spring winding tight in her chest pulled her together and told her to calm herself, to use her mind instead of her heart.
“I shall ask you once more,” she said, “to state your business.”
He l
aughed, deep and from his belly, and twisted in his saddle to send a glance at his companions. Then he turned back around. “Why he sent us to fetch his young’uns.”
Willa resisted succumbing to the stab of pain. Her breath subsided to a faint, wraithlike plume, and she prayed her heart would not cease beating. Think. Think clearly. Would Brendan send six strange men to Willowbend? Armed men who wore masks? The answer was a resounding no. The man was lying. Brendan may be in her bad graces at this time, but he would not do this. Should he want his children, he would come for them himself.
“Where is Captain Ford?” she asked as piercingly as the blades on her throwing knives. “Why does he send you to carry out his errands? Is he your commander?”
The man raised a hand and scratched his head under his hat. His cold pale eyes above the mask shone in the torchlight as razor-sharp as shattered glass. The fine hairs on Willa’s arms rose. “Captain Ford is busy,” he said. “He sent us to make sure the young’uns get to him safely. Now you jest be a good little woman and fetch ‘em so’s we can be on our way. I don’t want no trouble. Someone might get hurt, and that would be a shame.”
Willa backed toward the door and drew out the pistol. “You will leave now. If Captain Ford wishes to see his children, he can come in person. I shall not hand them over to you or to anyone else.”
He raised his hands, palms outward. “Now, Miss Bellingham, let’s jest do this the easy way. Put away that gun. Them pistols are touchy when you don’t know what you’re doin'. Why, you might shoot yurself in the foot.” A chorus of guffaws came from behind him.
“I know perfectly well what I’m doing. I have handled weapons all my life. And this one is aimed directly at the point where your manhood meets that saddle.” She cocked back the hammer. The sharp click arose over the snorting and shuffling of the horses and the soughing of the wind.
He blanched, lowered his hands, and snatched up his reins in one fist. Lifting his other arm, he pointed a finger at her. “I’m goin'. But I’m gettin’ them children. One way or another, I’m gettin’ ‘em. You’ll be sorry you didn’t give ‘em up peaceful like.” He pivoted his horse around on its hocks and thundered through the line of men. They whipped their mounts about and dogged his heels. The clatter of hooves filled the air.
Willa lowered the pistol and sidled through the partially open door. The blood drained from her head, leaving her shaky and as weak as a ghost. When she sagged back against the solid portal, it slammed closed.
“They will be back,” Richard said.
At his low, strained voice, she lifted her eyes. Richard and Plato stood beside the small windows flanking the door. “I have no doubt but they will. And next time, they will not bother to engage us in conversation.”
Willa had dozed off in an armchair in the parlor when she dreamed of fire. She opened her eyes with a jerk and bolted from the chair, startling Quinn, who stood watch by the front windows. His head snapped around.
“Fire!” she yelled.
Her loud exclamation awakened Mary, Jwana, and Richard, who had stretched out on the rug by the fireplace. The twins lay with Rebecca on the sofa. The noise started them whimpering. Rebecca sat up and put her arms around them, whispering for them to be brave.
The sound of running feet came from the hallway, and Plato burst into the parlor. “Dey lit de stable! Must’a came up behind it.”
“Cherokee,” Willa said on an exhaled breath, her heart pounding. “Oh, God, I must save Cherokee.” Richard caught her as she made to run from the room.
“Plato and I will release the horses. You provide cover for us.” He pointed to Quinn. “Remain here and guard the front.” He turned to Jwana and Mary. “Accompany us and watch the door. Rebecca and Emma will stay with the children.”
Richard, Willa, and Plato rushed through the hallways past the kitchen and pantries to the back door leading from a mudroom into the rear yard. Richard cracked open the door. He and Willa peered out. Dark figures on horseback with burning torches in their hands circled the barn. Smoke poured from the back of the building. Flames licked along the roof. Richard pointed to the gazebo. “Willa, can you make it to the folly and pick off a man with your rifle? The distraction should force them to scatter for cover, and we can make a run for the horses.”
Willa nodded and slipped out the door. She ran crouched over and scurried to the small, roofed structure. As she rose up and lifted the rifle, she cocked back the hammer, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger. The gun spit fire and shot into the night. One man screamed and toppled from his horse. The others backed away quickly and ran for the trees in the woodlot along the edge of the side yard. From the corner of her eye, Willa saw Richard and Plato tearing out of the house and sprinting toward the barn.
Thirty seconds. The length of time it will take to reload this rifle. Willa threw the rifle to the ground and raced after the fleeing men. Grasping the throwing knife strapped to her wrist, she slid to a stop. She flipped the knife and balanced the blade between her fingers, drew back her arm, and snapped it forward. The knife tumbled end over end. Moonlight glinted off its blade as it sank into the back of the man closest to her. He released his reins, grabbed at his back, and careened from the saddle. His foot caught in the stirrup, and he shrieked as the horse dragged him through the weeds and toward the trees. Before the horse disappeared into the shadow of the woodlot, the man’s voice fell silent.
Willa wasted no time mourning him. She spun and charged off toward the barn. When the horses galloped out the open doors, they all but ran her down. She threw herself to one side and rolled across the ground. Over the frightened horses’ pounding hoofbeats and their shrill neighing, she heard gunfire as the men in the woodlot fired back. She crawled to a horse trough and took cover behind it.
Two horses charged from the closest trees and bore down on them. Both riders still carried torches and headed toward the house. Out in the open, Richard and Plato ran. Plato took a pistol ball in the arm. It spun him around, and he fell to his knees. Willa stood up and fired her pistol, but she was too far away. From out of the darkness, the boom of a musket came from behind her, blowing the man backward off his horse. He hit the ground with sprawled limbs.
The second man tried to run Willa down. The pistol in her hand was empty. At the last second, when the horse’s hot breath hit her in the face, she jumped aside, swung her free hand around, and planted the hunting knife in the man’s belly. He slumped back in his saddle and looked down at his middle as if he could not believe what he saw. His horse simply stepped out from under him. He dropped and rolled twice before coming to rest facedown in the dirt.
When Willa glanced over her shoulder, Jwana stood in the doorway and handed off her spent musket to Mary. Mary thrust another one into the maid’s hands.
They waited and watched, reloading the guns while Jwana tended to Plato’s flesh wound. The men did not return and, after some time, it became clear they would not. Three bodies lay in the yard near the house and barn, the fourth one in the meadow along the tree line. A loaded pistol in one hand and another tucked into his belt, Richard walked from one corpse to another. Turning them over, he ripped the masks from their faces. Willa strode beside him, feeling the need to look upon the features of her enemies.
“None are Marion’s men,” Richard said after examining the last body. “This one I recognize.” He kicked the man in the side. “He was a guard at the garrison, a private if I’m not mistaken.”
“Their leader escaped,” Willa said, not seeing among the dead the large man who had ordered her to give up her children. A moment passed before she processed what Richard had said. “The garrison? Then they are British?”
“Or Tories, or deserters,” he replied as he peered back at the barn. Willa looked in the same direction. An inferno consumed one entire side and the roof. Fortunately the wind was blowing in from the east and sent the cinders and sparks into a plowed field instead of the house. The roar of the flames nearly deafened them. “The barn
is a loss,” he said, “but the stock escaped safely. Your boy, Joshua, had already opened the stalls and shooed the animals out into the aisle by the time we reached them.”
A sword of guilt stabbed Willa. In her concern for Cherokee, she had completely forgotten about Joshua.
Richard broke into her thoughts. “When it becomes light, we shall round up the livestock and put them in the corral. I wager your visitors will not return tonight.”
“The barn is of no consequence,” Willa said pensively. “We can easily rebuild.” Questions that begged for answers caught her up in a labyrinth. At the foremost, why would the British want her children? Only one answer came to mind—to draw in Brendan Ford. Were that true, then Digby must have some hand in this attack.
Richard retrieved Willa’s hunting knife and took one last look at the man with the throwing knife in his back. Walking over to him, Richard pulled out the blade and wiped it on the man’s coat. He tossed the weapon to Willa. “Nice knife work,” he said in a dry voice as he made his way back to the house. “Remind me not to ruffle your feathers.”
A week later, a Tory patrol came upon the body of a man floating facedown in a half-filled ditch of water alongside the Georgetown road. His death came not from drowning; someone had sliced his throat from ear to ear.
Chapter 36
In November, when Francis Marion received word of Cornwallis’s surrender at Yorktown, he dismissed his brigade, retaining only his core group of officers. The people of St. John’s Parish, Berkeley County, had elected Marion to the state senate in September, and as 1781 gave way to 1782, he made plans to leave and attend the assembly in Jacksonboro to fulfill his duties. He turned over the brigade command to Colonel Peter Horry and promoted Captain Brendan Ford to the rank of major.
Ford’s farm lay on the James River, not far from Yorktown. Word of fierce fighting in Virginia took its toll on his temper and imagination as he envisioned his farm in ruins. He was worn out, becoming quarrelsome, and snapped at subordinates as he strode about the camp in a continual black distemper.
