The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  “He said that many poor Irish were sold into slavery, just like the Africans.” She fiddled with a tea towel. “Children, even. Is that true?”

  “’Tis true.” Connor clenched his jaw, then nodded. “Ireland has a long history o’ violence and fighting.”

  “Will you ever go back?”

  “No. There’s nothing for me there, except a postage-size plot o’ rocky ground that the British crown says the O’Sheas have no legal claim to.” Connor leaned against a porch column. “While I miss Ireland, it’s me brothers I long for. I should’ve . . .”

  “Should’ve what?”

  “I should’ve been there all these years. With Mam and Da gone, the boys are my responsibility. It’s been three years since I heard from Quinn. What if—?” He broke off, unable to voice his fear that something had happened to his brothers.

  “Three years?” Isabella’s voice filled with compassion. “I’m sorry, Connor. Do your brothers know you’re no longer in the Carolinas?”

  “I asked Bloomfield t’ post a letter.” He didn’t tell her that Bloomfield had also penned the missive. It would’ve taken Connor a month of Sundays to write everything down, and even then, Quinn would’ve had a hard time figuring out his chicken scratch. He shrugged, gave her a joyless smile. “Quinn, Caleb, Rory, Patrick—the lads are all I’ve got left in this world. It would be a fine thing t’ lay eyes on them.”

  Her mouth curved into a smile, and she laughed quietly. “Do you know why I bought your papers that day in Natchez?”

  What kind of question was that? “Because Breeze Hill needed someone to rebuild the west wing?”

  She leaned against the column opposite him. “Yes. And no. I bought your papers because you were willing to do whatever it took to be reunited with your brothers. I knew—” her lips twitched—“or at least I hoped someone who cared that much about their family could be trusted and would fit in here at Breeze Hill. I thought it was admirable that you were willing to sacrifice your freedom for theirs.”

  Connor scowled. She talked as if he were some kind of saint. “You give me too much credit, mistress. There are some that would say I’m the reason my brothers are in the dire straits they’re in.”

  “How so?”

  He lifted a brow at her, and she had the grace to blush.

  “I’m sorry. I’m prying again. But—” she paused, then continued softly—“it’s never too late to make amends.”

  “For some it is.” For Da. For Mam.

  “As long as there’s breath, it’s not too late.” Tears shimmering in her eyes, she turned and faced the long, winding drive that led to the main road. “I’d give anything to see Jonathan come riding up to Breeze Hill once again.”

  She closed the short distance between them and placed a hand on his arm. Her touch burned through the thin cotton of his shirt. “That’s never going to happen for me, but for you and your brothers, it will. Someday.”

  Chapter 17

  NOLAN INSPECTED the slaves that Turnbull lined up before him.

  Truthfully, he wasn’t the least bit interested in purchasing yet another slave, and his overseer was off somewhere doing who knew what, leaving him to deal with the slave trader.

  Turnbull, his hand bound in a bloodstained neckerchief, motioned to a tall, muscular slave. “Master Braxton, this here’s Abraham. Abraham is the man for any job you need done. Fieldwork, handy with a hammer and the forge. See those muscles? He’s got the strength of an ox and the stamina of one too.”

  Nolan eyed the slave, not liking the surly way he looked back at him. Apparently Turnbull noticed the lack of respect as well.

  “Mind yo’ manners, boy.”

  Abraham shifted his flat gaze toward Turnbull. “Yes, suh.”

  “He can operate a forge, you say?”

  “Good as any.”

  Nolan made a circle around the merchandise. He could use a smithy to keep the horses shod. A lame horse and a captured highwayman could lead to disaster. He made Turnbull an offer.

  “For that price, I could’ve left his carcass with Bartholomew.” Turnbull’s laugh was cruel. “A gift, if you will.”

  “Bartholomew? What happened there?”

  Turnbull rubbed his fingers across the bandage on his right hand. “Bartholomew stuck his nose in where he wasn’t wanted. Used a whip on me and my men. I could’ve killed him on the spot—once I realized he was human—”

  Turnbull broke off, seeming to realize he was talking to one of Bartholomew’s peers. He shrugged. “My apologies for speaking ill of Master Bartholomew. It was the shock and all. He like to scared me spitless.”

  Nolan chuckled. “No harm done, Mr. Turnbull. I can see how that could happen.”

  Turnbull looked relieved. Nolan made another turn about the slave, thinking. Turnbull had a reputation for murder and mayhem that Nolan doubted Pierre could even touch. The man might come in handy. Very handy indeed.

  He pivoted. “Mr. Turnbull, I’ve reconsidered my assessment of the merchandise. I’ll triple my offer if that’s acceptable.”

  Turnbull’s eyes narrowed; then he bowed, a delighted grin sweeping across his pockmarked face. “I accept your offer, sir.”

  “Good. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, would you join me in my study? I have other business to discuss.”

  Connor tilted his head back and looked up, up, up into the branches of a mighty oak, straight and true.

  Circling the tree, he admired it from all angles. Big and impressive but completely inadequate for his needs. The crosscut saws back at the sawmill couldn’t handle a tree of that size. He moved on, looking for smaller trees not twisted by the hurricane-force winds that roared through the area during the fall months. After he marked two dozen trees, he mounted the horse he’d borrowed from the stables and headed back toward home.

  Thinking about the trees he planned to cut, he considered the idea of digging a saw pit in the woods. The earth was loamy enough that the job shouldn’t be too backbreaking. And cutting and sawing those trees right on the spot would save days of snaking the logs home.

  As he neared the trace, he pondered the merit of snaking the logs out to the road, then loading them on wagons and hauling them home. It was probably three miles home as the crow flew, but closer to four or five on the winding trace. He’d discuss it with Mr. Bartholomew tonight.

  The sound of jingling harnesses and creaking wheels interrupted his musings. Shortly a garrison of Spanish soldiers riding close to a fancy enclosed carriage the likes of which he’d never seen rounded the bend heading northward along the trail. Whoever was in that carriage must be important to warrant an escort from the Spanish fort in Natchez.

  When they passed, he faded into the shadows to find another route home. He had no quarrel with the Spanish government or its soldiers, but still, he had no desire to be questioned or detained either. The trail twisted and turned along the ridges that populated the area. He urged his mount across a wash, hoping to reenter the trail a half mile ahead of the travelers and be long gone before they got there.

  Ten minutes of riding through dense undergrowth, having his jerkin grabbed by thorns, and fighting mosquitoes the size of bumblebees, he spotted the serpentine trace ahead. Moments before he descended to the trail, his horse’s ears perked forward, and he sawed back on the reins. Movement on the trail caught his eye.

  Had the Spanish garrison made it this far already? Surely not.

  More than a dozen mounted men eased along the roadbed, keeping their mounts quiet. They were a rough lot, armed to the teeth and looking for trouble. Long years of travel had worn the road down to where high banks ascended on each side. One man rose up in the saddle, turned, and motioned to his compatriots. One by one, the group disappeared, urging their mounts into the woods. Even as Connor watched, some of the cutthroats embedded themselves along the high banks overlooking the trail.

  An ambush? Against the soldiers?

  Connor crept back into the trees, careful not to make any so
und. As soon as he’d put enough distance between him and the ambush, he urged his mount through the dense underbrush, hoping to warn the Spaniards in time. He was still twenty yards from the trace when the carriage came into view, moving along at a good clip. He broke from cover and hit the roadbed between the ambush and the soldiers, shouting out a warning.

  “Ambush!”

  The entire garrison took cover as a barrage of shots rang out. Connor threw himself off his horse and dove toward a fallen log. A clean-shaven officer not much older than Connor hunkered down behind the same log. “How many of them are there?”

  Connor didn’t have time to ponder the fact that the man spoke English, and not with a Spanish accent, but as someone born in the colonies. “I don’t know, sir. Fifteen. Maybe twenty.”

  The man took careful aim and fired on their attackers before barking orders in Spanish to his men. The soldiers took care to unload their pistols in groups, giving the rest of the party time to load again.

  A volley of shots peppered them and one group of soldiers surged forward while others fell behind the lines and reloaded, the group steadily advancing on their attackers. As suddenly as it began, the attack ended, and with yells and bone-chilling screeches, the highwaymen caught up their horses and fled.

  Connor stood next to the log, looking at the carnage. Two men lay dead; another one pressed a compress to his shoulder while blood seeped through his fingers. The officer barked orders in rapid-fire Spanish, and several soldiers mounted their horses and gave chase.

  Others took up positions around the perimeter, watching for a counterattack. The remaining party made quick work of bandaging the wounded and hoisting the dead onto horses. The officer approached Connor.

  “Captain Stephen Minor, at your service.” He bowed, showing Connor a deference that would have been ludicrous under any other circumstances. “I’m beholden to you. If you hadn’t come along, that bunch of cutthroats would have had us right where they wanted us.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir.”

  “I beg to differ.” The officer nodded toward the carriage. “Miss Watts is a personal friend of the governor, and he would be grieved to learn of any assault on her person.”

  “Stephen?”

  The captain turned as the woman in the carriage beckoned. “Excuse me.”

  Connor dipped his head in reply, and as the officer walked away to tend to his charge, he went looking for his horse. It was time to be on his way if he wanted to get home before dark. He’d just caught up the reins when Minor approached him again.

  “Just a moment, if you would be so kind.”

  Connor stopped, turned back.

  “The lady inquires your name.”

  “Connor O’Shea, sir. Indentured servant to Matthew Bartholomew of Breeze Hill Plantation.”

  “Ah, Bartholomew.” Minor nodded. “I knew his son, Jonathan. Such a pity. And the fire, as well. How fares Bartholomew these days?”

  “Some better, sir.”

  “Good to hear.”

  The soldiers returned, their attempt to chase down their attackers unsuccessful. Minor mounted his horse and ordered his men to fall in. “We’d better get on before dark falls. Will you accompany us to the inn?”

  “No thank you, sir. I must get back to Breeze Hill.”

  “Are you sure?” His horse pranced as if anxious to put some distance between itself and this place.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, then. Godspeed to you, O’Shea. And give Bartholomew my regards.”

  “Miss Isabella! Miss Isabella!”

  “That Lizzy, always caterwauling about something.” Martha tsked and shook her head. “Somebody needs to teach that girl some manners.”

  Isabella chuckled, knowing that Martha was just as fond of the motherless child as the rest of them. Most nights—every night, if truth be told—Martha made sure to cook enough food for the Mews family.

  Lizzy rushed headlong onto the porch of the summer kitchen, where she and Martha sat peeling potatoes. “Riders.” Lizzy’s face was almost as red as her hair. She pointed. “They’re tearing up the cotton.”

  Isabella ran for the dinner bell and pulled the cord, summoning the men to the house. Mews and the other field hands came running, followed quickly by Horne and the boys who’d been working at the sawmill.

  “Lizzy saw riders in the cotton.”

  Mews addressed his daughter. “Which field, girl?”

  “The one next to the trace.”

  Anger rumbled through the workers. They’d just finished plowing it last week. And to think that someone cared so little as to trample it.

  The men rushed to drive the interlopers out, some with guns, others with hoes, axes, whatever came to hand. Isabella hurried toward the house. She was halfway to the field with her father’s musket when he and Jim arrived in the pony cart.

  “I heard the bell.” He eyed the gun in her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  She explained quickly, then hiked her skirts and took off toward the field.

  “Isabella, come back here. Let the men handle it.”

  But Isabella didn’t stop. Her family’s livelihood was at stake here. She gripped the cold steel in both hands, anger warring with common sense. She’d blow these highwaymen away before she’d let them destroy her family.

  Tears blurred her vision as she ran, the gun growing heavier with each step.

  She couldn’t deny that someone wanted to destroy her family. Her father was right. Somebody wanted to lay spoil to everything they’d worked for.

  They’d burned the cotton last fall, almost killing her father and Leah in the process, murdered Jonathan, and most recently put Leah and the babe’s life in danger. No one with any respect for human life would try to run down a pregnant woman.

  She could see the field in the distance when Mews and the others fired their first shots. Sporadic gunfire answered them; then the riders spurred their mounts away, angling across the field toward the trees to Isabella’s left.

  White-hot anger arched through Isabella as the slashing hooves tore up even more of the precious plants, and without thought to her own safety, she jerked the gun to her shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The recoil of the heavy gun knocked her on her backside, but she didn’t care. Whether she hit anybody or not, she couldn’t tell, but satisfaction coursed through her as they ducked low over their mounts and raced toward the cover of the trees on the opposite side of the field.

  She struggled to her feet just as the little pony cart came bouncing along the wagon trail. Her father gripped the reins in his gnarled fists, his fire-ravaged face mottled with pent-up rage. Jim held on to the cart with both hands.

  “They’re gone? Did we get any of the blackguards?”

  “I don’t know.” Isabella placed the heavy musket in the cart, lifted her skirts, and hurried toward the field.

  Row after row of crushed plants littered the ground, pounded by the horses’ hooves. Not just sporadic, but deliberate attempts to destroy the cotton. It was too late to replant. Either they’d have to pick the cotton bolls that survived and managed to bloom out, or let the entire field go to waste.

  Regardless, they didn’t have time to spend in such a way, and the yield would be a fraction of what they’d hoped for.

  Isabella glared in the direction the riders had gone, anger clutching her in its iron grip.

  They would pay for this.

  Connor headed straight to Mr. Bartholomew’s quarters. The plantation owner needed to know what had happened on the trace today. He knocked and Mr. Bartholomew bade him enter.

  He stepped through the door and came face-to-face with Isabella. Splotches of color gave her cheeks a rosy glow, and she looked fit to chew nails.

  He glanced at Mr. Bartholomew. “Excuse me, sir. I’ll come back later.”

  “No, Connor, come in.” Isabella’s father waved him into the room.

  Connor glanced at Isabella. Her hair was disheveled and dirt smudged her cheek. Mr. Barthol
omew looked a bit ragged as well. Had something happened in his absence? A niggling worry grabbed him. Had the thieves come to Breeze Hill after the Spaniards had routed them?

  “Forsooth, man, what happened to you?” Mr. Bartholomew eyed Connor’s dusty, sweat-stained attire, the powder burns on his frayed shirt. He’d forgotten his own bedraggled appearance in his concern over Isabella and her father.

  “Highwaymen attacked a band of travelers about two hours ago. Spanish soldiers led by an American named Stephen Minor.”

  “Minor, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was anyone injured?”

  “Two soldiers were killed, but the others were able to thwart the attack.”

  Mr. Bartholomew scowled. “I’ll wager the ruffians are the same ones that destroyed the cotton field. They were probably trying to escape the militia.”

  “The cotton field, sir?”

  “Yes. A party of riders, fifteen or twenty in all, trampled the cotton in the new ground not long ago. We fired shots but didn’t kill any of the blackguards. A pity.”

  “But why trample the cotton field?”

  “With these men, it’s more a matter of ‘why not’ than ‘why.’ They seem to thrive on creating havoc. I’m also concerned that they would attack a group of Spanish soldiers. Were they escorting a payroll of some sort?”

  “Not that I know of. There was a fancy carriage and a lady. A friend of the governor. A Miss Watts, I believe.”

  “Ah, the lovely Elizabeth. What if they were after the carriage or Miss Watts? Possibly for ransom as Wainwright feared? Surely they wouldn’t be so brash.” Mr. Bartholomew tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Isabella, get some paper and a quill. I need to send a letter to Wainwright. These attacks are getting out of hand, and something needs to be done.”

  “You attacked a party of Spanish soldiers led by Stephen Minor? Along with the governor’s lady friend? Of all the dull-witted things to do.”

  Nolan stared at Pierre. One more error in judgment of such magnitude, and Nolan would be tempted to put a bullet in the man himself. Or maybe have someone of Turnbull’s ilk do it. But right now he needed to find out exactly what mischief Pierre had gotten into.