Wood, Fire, & Gold

by Jackson, Pam

  Andie interrupted his military terminology lesson. “Yes, I know, a click is a kilometer.” Sarcasm etched her voice.

  “Wow, I’m impressed,” Clay said with his own bitter tongue as he arched a dark eyebrow. “Did they teach you that at debutante school? Yeah, evidently you missed the lesson on saying thank you.” The caveman was back.

  “I wonder how many clicks,” she said, emphasizing her last word, “it is to Rockefeller Center. I do wish to get there on time for my first ice skating lesson,” she said, mimicking a sweet Southern accent that came way too naturally.

  Clay rolled his eyes and opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came.

  The snow was coming down faster, in fist-sized flakes. Andie looked up at the dark gray sky, trying her best not to show any concern about her dilemma.

  “Listen.” Clay’s tone was much softer now. “Let’s make a deal. If you follow me back to my house, as soon as we get there, you can use the phone to call the ranger station. There’s not much cell service up here, and it’s spotty at best. You can tell them what happened and that you’re staying with me. Besides, most of the park rangers know me. They can vouch for my exemplary, but sometimes brutish, behavior.” A dimpled grin appeared on his face. “I’m not going to hurt you, and you’re right not to trust strange men who wander around in the woods. I was tired of sitting in my house all morning and decided to take a hike before the weather changed. I was on my way back when I heard your screams from the edge of the cliff. And if I wasn’t a decent human being, I surely would’ve ignored your cries for help and let you fall into that ravine.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” she agreed with a solemn nod. “Thank you, and I wasn’t screaming, I was trying to muster up some inner strength to save myself. Motivational words, that’s all.”

  “Uh-huh.” The sarcastic grin reappeared on Clay’s face. “Well, whatever it was, you need to work on it.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, instantly regretting his last remark. “I’m sorry. I don’t know when to shut up sometimes. Please come with me back to the house and you can call the ranger station. Just wait at the house for the ranger to send up a rescue truck; he’ll bring you back to your car.” He stared quietly at Andie, doing his best to act civilized.

  She knew her options were fading fast. He was right about the cell coverage. She had checked her phone before putting on her climbing harness, and she’d noticed there was no signal, but she had told herself that civilization was just a few hours away. Besides, what choice did she have at this point? “Okay, I’ll go with you, but I’m calling the ranger as soon as we get to your house.”

  She usually was not afraid of being alone with new people. She was proud that she could take care of herself and fight back if need be. Act, never react, was a mantra she tried to follow. Her career often required her to meet strangers in dark, dreary places in foreign lands, but this was different. She was more cautious, more leery. But what if Tivloi had sent him? She could be walking into a trap.

  She was cold and hungry and most likely lost. Her best option was to follow Clay out of the woods. Hell, it was better than waiting here and being mauled by a goddamned bear, she thought. She would follow her instincts, knowing that the moment she felt uncomfortable with her new, brawny guide, she’d be out of there in a nanosecond.

  She watched as he turned and began walking down the deer trail again. However, this time, she noticed a slight limp in his left leg.

  Chapter 2

  Early October

  1777, Hudson Valley, New York

  Abimal Young’s plump, crimson face trembled with fear and pain; the dried hemp rope squeaked as it scored into Abimal’s belly flesh, and the sturdy iron well pole groaned in protest from the weight of his stout body dangling over the open well. He twisted and kicked to obtain some leverage with his bare feet, but there was nothing but air. Water dripping from his nightgown beaded onto the stone surface of the well house.

  “Would you like a moment, Abimal, to bethink on my inquiry?” questioned the voice from beyond, deep and oozing with confidence. “Aye, ‘tis time we put you down, but my patience is wearing thin. So, posthaste, Mr. Young, if you will.”

  Abimal found himself swinging back over the hard-packed dirt of the horse lane and away from the cold water of his well. Two men eased their grip off of the opposite end of the rope, and Abimal fell to the ground with a thud. He gasped for breath as he coughed up water that had found its way into his lungs from the dunk in his deep well. The hemp rope encircled his rotund body, and his hands were tied in a sturdy knot at the small of his back. He was hog-tied, with no wiggle room for escape.

  “Come, come, old man. Nay do I want to place you through all of this, but you leave me no choice. Deliver to us what you have. A few meager pence? Four farthings? And then we shall be off. ‘Tis your money or your life, old man.” The disembodied voice belonged to Claudius Smith, a Loyalist to the crown with a knack for thieving. When his name was uttered in these hills, it meant either friend or foe—and in this case, it was foe.

  Claudius sauntered out from the dark shadows and into the pale light of an oil lantern that was hanging from an iron hook attached to the well house cover. Claudius placed a leather boot against the back of Abimal’s pudgy neck and, with precise pressure, held Abimal’s swollen face in the dry dirt. He leaned in closer to his victim and spoke in a low, gritty whisper. “If I were you, I would not writhe too much.” Claudius eyed one of his men, now holding a long knife usually intended to gut deer and cattle. “My fellow brethren here, Tom Jones, is skilled with a knife and is eager to please.”

  “Claudius, you wicked man! The devil shall soon see you in his inferno lair,” Abimal remarked, sucking in clumps of dirt with every inhalation. He soon realized he would be better off being slowly drowned in his well rather than speaking and filling his mouth and lungs with dirt. Silence was best in this situation—for many reasons.

  Claudius let out a hearty laugh and found himself deeply amused by Abimal’s comment. “Certainly you do not wish me to visit the devil alone, Abimal? Nay, for I am not the one who is stingy with my purse. You were besought by Mrs. McClaughry to part with a dearth pence—a simple loan to assist her husband’s desperate situation. Even you must agree that being detained amongst the filth on a rat-infested prison ship is a living hell, but you did not choose to be generous with a bit of coin. You would prefer my men and I to thrash you about ‘til you surrender the location of your wealth.”

  “Claudius, we should murder him and toss his carcass down the well,” Tom said, addressing his tall leader as he held his long knife down toward Abimal’s face. The knife’s blade and ivory white handle glowed in the moonlight, illuminating Abimal’s trembling jowls.

  Tom Jones was thin and gangly, but Claudius was correct when advising Abimal on Tom’s knife skills. He was one of Claudius’s most trusted men, and having this fierce ally was a great advantage to Claudius and his group of thieves.

  New York and New Jersey, along the Hudson Valley, were at the core of military activity during this bloody political conflict between the crown and the colonies. No one could be trusted. Neighborhoods and families were divided by their political views, and loyalties fell to either side. Claudius had realized from the beginning that his best opportunity to gain wealth and privilege was to remain loyal to the crown, even if it did mean that his colonial neighbors would suffer from his predatory ways.

  “Come now, Tom. We will not show Abimal here that we are beasts. I know this old man will turn to see this my way and be a bit more generous to his guests.” Claudius feigned a wide smile at Abimal as he rolled the plump man onto his back with his leather boot.

  Claudius was growing just as impatient as Tom, but he didn’t want the situation to get out of control. Tom would certainly slit Abimal’s throat in seconds, but Claudius didn’t need a murder warrant with a hefty bounty on his crew. It was bad enough that they were hiding out under terrible conditions in the mountains beyond the
towns, eluding the spies for General Washington. There was already an outstanding warrant for his arrest for robbery and cattle theft, and his opportunities were suffering due to his retreat into the dense forests of the Ramapo Mountains. It was only for so long that he could hide out within the vast caves that speckled the highlands landscape.

  The band of thieves consisted of eight men, made up of both young and old. Amongst these wild and audacious men was an Iroquois-Mohawk Indian named Jhan. This native had befriended Claudius many years prior to the recent aggression within the colonies. They had met during the French and Indian War, and Jhan, whose given Mohawk name was difficult for Claudius to pronounce, was said to have taught Claudius survival skills of living off the land. He had even invited Claudius to use a secluded and sacred rocky hill enclosure for his hideout. Jhan was a friend to the Lenape tribe that predominately lived in these hills, who had abandoned that eerie patch of rocky earth years before. It was a perfect spot to hold stolen cattle and horses; it even had a fresh water supply that never froze on the coldest of winter days. Claudius and his men would collect the cattle and horses for a few weeks and then walk them out of the dense forest through old Indian trails to the Hudson River. Claudius had an inside man bargaining with the British troops that occupied Manhattan island. The horses were fresh, and the cattle were slaughtered and the beef sold to the embedded British officers, leaving Claudius with a handsome amount of gold and silver coins.

  “Claudius, we must leave,” said the tall native man. He spoke in a soft, slow tone. “Not safe for us here, and if we encounter Captain Black’s volunteers, they will hang us. They search for us, since we stole Horace Shuit’s milch cows last month.”

  Claudius knew his native friend was right. They were exposed out here, only a few miles from the town. They had already had a dozen beef cattle grazing in the pasture below the rocky hill for well over two weeks, and time was money. They should’ve been heading to the river with their fat cattle, but instead they were manhandling old Abimal Young.

  “Abimal, I am weary of this enduring game. If you are not surrendering the whereabouts of some money, my choice is to let Tom and Jhan dangle you from this well pole ‘til you grow gills. I will not have mercy for you, sir!” exclaimed Claudius, anger rattling his voice.

  Although Claudius was helping the British wage their war against the colonies, he didn’t look at this conflict in the same way his Loyalist or Patriot neighbors did. He was an opportunist, and he believed that Washington’s ragtag army was no match for the might of the British troops, and when this bloodshed was over, he would be on the winning side. King George would certainly reward him with wealth and land for his loyalty, and to attain this, Claudius would be as corrupt and as severe as necessary.

  “Claudius, I will not give in to the likes of you. Your treachery and violence will see to your damnation!” exclaimed Abimal, raspy from the gravel and water cluttering his throat.

  Silence fell over the men for a moment, and a cool breeze blew from the east. Claudius stood upright as anger flashed over his face, the moon lighting his dark eyes as his lids twitched with fury. With slow and deliberate movement he turned his back on the coming act of aggression against poor Abimal.

  Claudius arched his back slightly and unlocked one of his clenched fists, bringing it up to the back of his head. He stroked the delicate red ribbon that loosely held his lengthy dark hair back in a queue at the nape of his neck. This action seemed to calm Claudius, and he began to speak in softer tones.

  “Jhan, Tom. String him up again.” He spoke these words coolly to his men, never once turning back to witness the torture he had commanded. “Aye, Abimal, you should not have said that.”

  As Jhan and Tom lifted Abimal to his feet and affixed a makeshift noose, Abimal began a final plea to Claudius. “Why does the safety of this young rebel pain you enough to drag me from my home and mistreat me so? Especially for the coin that I say does not exist. I have no quarrel with you. Please, sir, let me go. Besides, I would expect you to want the damnation of that man’s soul on that foul prison ship in Wallabout Bay. You are a Loyalist? What is your burden to Mrs. McClaughry? Why would you want to help that wretched thing?”

  Claudius raised a hand, suddenly halting Abimal’s imminent encounter with his maker, his back still facing them. “Abimal, old man,” he said, his usual smooth tone replaced with a hiss of disdain. “I shall be King George’s man when it comes to this abhorrent conflict, but what I despise more than senseless bloodshed is greed and knavish behavior.” He turned on his boot heel and grabbed Abimal by the ruffled collar of his cotton nightshirt. Through clenched teeth, he explained, “My interests in this bloody campaign are purely opportunistic. After this war has ended and I am rewarded fulsomely for my efforts, I will give to the poorest of neighbors and see to it that there is always bread for their children and wood for their fire. Mr. Young, you have the fair means being you own a lucrative linen business in town, and you are mostly seen looking like a dandy with fine broadcloth suits strutting along the paths on your Sunday stroll. Here is your occasion to earn a ballyhoo from the townsfolk.”

  Claudius released Abimal’s collar and patted him on the shoulder. “Mrs. McClaughry will swoon from your generosity. You might even become magistrate from this saintly offer to a poor wretch in need.” A wide, sarcastic grin crossed Claudius’s face, showing his brilliant teeth. “As I see it, old man, you will owe me for this beating you are about to receive.”

  Abimal managed to inhale enough air into his tortured lungs to expel a small amount of spit and dirt at Claudius. A look of horror appeared instantly on Abimal’s reddened face as he realized he had just sealed his own fate and would surely meet his maker momentarily. But to his amazement, Claudius let out a hearty bellow.

  “Damn you, Mr. Young, I have a newfound respect for you and your stubbornness,” Claudius said between laughs. “Aye, if you were not such an ass, I would allow you to enter my band of noble men. But I have not the time or patience for this foolery.” He gestured to Tom and Jhan to hang Abimal again from the well pole.

  Claudius’s men began to rustle up Abimal and tighten the rope around his bruised rib cage. Claudius whispered to Jhan, “Keep him up there for as long as you shall see a breath in him, however, do not drown him.” Jhan nodded and continued his task with Tom.

  As Claudius made his way toward Abimal’s farmhouse, he could hear the struggle between his men and Abimal beginning. This troubled him. He didn’t want to torture Abimal Young, but the man’s arrogance and stinginess outraged him; showing no mercy might prevent a mutiny amongst his men one day. He looked forward to the day when Katherine and he would leave these hills and move beyond the towns and hamlets. They would be together. She shall be mine. She just didn’t know it yet. He would shower her with all the baubles and bits he had in his treasure trunks just so she would say yes to him, and he would build her a beautiful manor house on the vast acreage granted to him for his loyalty to the crown.

  He felt no guilt for wanting to abandon his current family or these loyal men who adored him; it was only she now, he needed to stroke her silken, honey hair and hold her in his arms for the rest of his days. The red ribbon he wore was Katherine’s, and he often rubbed his strong fingers against the delicate silk and imagined that her ivory skin felt just as soft. But he had to complete the task at hand first. Mrs. McClaughry was a sweet and innocent woman; she loved her husband and was devoted to keeping him alive on that scurvy-ridden prison ship. Claudius admired her devotion and had taken it upon himself to raise the funds for her husband’s safety. It had been his decision alone to raise the money from the same stingy man who had refused her initial plea. Justice well served, in Claudius’s eyes.

  The oak floorboards squeaked as Claudius entered the sparsely furnished parlor. Evidently, Abimal was stingy with his own creature comforts as well, except when it came to his own fashionable apparel. “Think, man—where, oh where, would a stingy fellow keep his money?” Claudius wonder
ed aloud as he scanned the room for a secret hiding space.

  He walked into the dining room and then down into the kitchen. He checked the hearth and tapped at the floorboards for a resonating hollow sound that would indicate a secret compartment, but no such luck. Frustration and anger surged through his veins, and his patience was just about to give way to an explosive ransacking of old Abimal’s few and meager personal belongings. Finally, Claudius was able to locate several pieces of eight stashed in a copper snuff box hidden in a pantry. As he made his way to the double-Dutch door of the farmhouse, he noticed that one of the built-in corner hutches was not the same as its twin on the other side of the room. He ran his fingers along the edge of the hutch where the seam was not flush with the wall. A small gap was present—just enough space for Claudius to place his fingertips in between for a bit of leverage. With a heavy groan and the ringing of vibrating glass panes, the hutch began to move slowly away from the wall, revealing a hidden compartment sitting beyond the wood lath and horsehair mortar. Claudius reached his arm into the compartment and felt the cool, rough texture of hammered metal. Pulling this heavy piece from its hole in the wall, Claudius was shocked as he brought his newfound treasure into the lantern light. “What book are thee?”

  Claudius said in hushed tones, “Aye, you are a shifty bastard, Abimal,” as he ran his fingers along the decorative engravings. “This is way too valuable to give up to Mrs. McClaughry. You are mine to keep now, and even the devil shall not pry you from my hands. Although, I wonder what you are?” he questioned, speaking to the object as if it were alive and breathing.

  Claudius left the house with a composed stride, his dark frock coat blowing in the autumn night breeze, exposing the book under his arm. He passed the scene of torture, knowing that it was on his order that Abimal was being dunked into his well for punishment, but he turned away and jumped up on his black mare. “Let him go, men. Nay, he is no use to us now. I have the coin to give to Mrs. McClaughry. Leave him in the dirt and do not tarry. Meet me at the den—and make sure you are not followed.” Claudius tugged at the reigns, and his black mare whinnied as she kicked up a cloud of dust into the dark night.