Daughters of Harwood House Trilogy : Three Romances Tell the Saga of Sisters Sold into Indentured Service (9781630586140)

by Crawford, Dianna; Laity, Sally

  If he returned.

  His chest tightened as a sharp pain gripped his side. But he refused to stop until George did. He couldn’t let the younger man beat him.

  About the time Colin was ready to give up, long-legged Washington stumbled to a halt, completely out of breath.

  Colin nearly ran into his barely visible leader in the moonless night. Clutching his sides, he bent slightly until his own breathing slowed.

  “That brave—is still—running.” Washington gasped, gulping air between words.

  “I know.” Colin shook his head in wonder as the man behind him bumped into him. “But he’s not loaded down as we are.”

  Others caught up, panting hard. Tuck and some of the others coughed.

  “Take two minutes to rest,” Washington ordered. “Pass the word down the line that I’ll be setting a slower pace.”

  Colin’s relief was short lived. The new pace might have been slower than the Indian’s, but with Washington’s ground-covering stride, their tall commander was still hard to keep up with except when the trail narrowed so that he had to stop and feel around, searching for the path. Worse, as the hours passed in pitch darkness, up and down hills, crossing streams, Colin sensed the men lagging farther and farther behind.

  Panting, he trotted up to Washington and tapped him on the shoulder. “Sir, I think we need to stop,” he whispered. “Take a head count.”

  “They’ve fallen behind?” the commander’s quiet tone matched his own.

  “I believe so.”

  After waiting for several minutes, the count was still seven short.

  Washington straightened his broad shoulders and spoke only loud enough for them to hear in the still night. “Men, we can wait no longer. We’ll pick up the stragglers on the way back—if they haven’t already returned to camp.”

  Shrouded in heavy rain clouds, the fragile hint of dawn was making an effort to illuminate the forest floor when Colin spotted more light up ahead. A clearing. As he drew closer, he noticed a longhouse with wickiups circled around it. A couple of cook fires already blazed. They’d arrived!

  A village dog sensed their presence and began barking, and others joined in, announcing the arrival of the militia.

  Washington paused before emerging from the line of trees and turned back to the trailing men. “Straighten yourselves. Look smart as we march in.”

  Beyond exhaustion, Colin couldn’t help but grin as he pulled off his hat and tucked any stray hairs back into his queue before replacing it squarely on his head. George Washington truly was a most seriously proper gentleman.

  Seneca warriors poured out of their dwellings, hatchets and rifles in hand.

  Although Colin was so tired he wanted nothing more than to fall to the ground and sleep for a week, he knew he had to appear fit, show no fear to the villagers as well as be an example for his own men.

  From an immense longhouse in the village emerged an Indian in his prime, perhaps forty years of age, powerful looking and heavily adorned with beads and feathers. Already tall, his elaborately quilled headpiece gave him an extra foot in height. Small wonder he was called Half King.

  Washington flashed a broad smile and walked immediately to the Indian, his arm outstretched. Grasping the tribal leader’s hand with both of his, he gave a hearty shake. “Great Chief Monakaduto, I bring you greetings from Governor Dinwiddie.”

  Half King stared stony faced for a moment. “Wash-ton.” Then gradually, his expression transformed into an enthusiastic grin. “Welcome.” Spreading wide a tattooed arm, he invited the commander into his council house.

  George turned to Colin. “Have the men partake of their victuals now. We will be leaving shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Although Colin would rather have questioned his superior’s judgment, he heeled around to the weary company of militiamen. A portending drop of rain pelted his nose. With a sigh, he met Tuck’s bleary eyes and slowly shook his head. What sort of fighting force could these sagging, bedraggled men possibly make?

  Chapter 24

  Mariah smiled to herself as she filled her plate with scrambled eggs, biscuits, bacon, and sliced peaches at the dining-room sideboard. She hadn’t been in such a cheerful mood since Colin proposed marriage and presented her with the lovely ring—those few precious moments before he abruptly deserted her yet again. Now she had a letter from him resting this very moment in the pocket of her skirt—and he’d written not to his family but to her personally, which absolutely proved his commitment to her.

  Mr. Barclay had ridden in from Alexandria last night, just as the women were about to retire, and he had brought two letters with him. One for Mariah and the other to his wife from her friend Diana in Williamsburg. As Mariah blithely returned to her bedchamber with her own unopened missive, she felt Mistress Barclay’s vexed stare following her every step.

  Thinking back on the grand moment, Mariah turned with her plate for the open doorway to the terrace. Now that the days had grown pleasantly warm, the family breakfasted outside in the open air, already perfumed with the scent of flowers. She found the elder Barclays and Heather seated at the round terrace table.

  The lady of the house looked up and smiled as Mariah approached, but her eyes held no warm spark. “Good morning, dear. I trust you slept well.”

  “I did, thank you.” Knowing the woman itched to know the contents of Colin’s letter imbued Mariah with a new sense of power as she took a chair and breathed in the balmy breeze wafting from the river. “ ’Tis such a lovely morning, is it not? The tobacco fields are quickly becoming quite lush and green.”

  Heather turned a questioning expression to her. “So, Mariah, what did my brother have to say in your letter? Is he on his way home—or will he be coming soon?”

  Before Mariah had a chance to respond, Amy charged out of the doorway, her full plate tilting precariously in her small hand. “Don’t even ask. She wouldn’t read it to me last night. She said it could wait till morning, but I don’t see why.”

  “Be careful you don’t spill your porridge, brat.” Following after her youngest sister, Victoria rolled her eyes.

  Their mother leveled them both with a glare as they took seats. “Don’t be impolite, child. It’s most discourteous to pry into someone’s private correspondence.”

  “Why, ’tisn’t prying at all.” Mariah, enjoying the moment to the fullest, favored them all with her sweetest smile. “I merely thought ’twould be more expedient if I read Colin’s letter to everyone at once. In fact, I’ve brought it with me.” She derived a measure of gratification from knowing he’d had foresight enough not to include anything of an intimate nature in it.

  “Splendid.” Mr. Barclay gestured to his two daughters. “Settle down, girls. After I give the blessing, Mariah can read her letter to us, if she so wishes.”

  What a dear man. Colin was a lot like him. Mariah bowed her head.

  She heard little of the man’s prayer, however, as her thoughts returned to his son. Colin was by far more handsome than any of the fine gentlemen she’d met in Williamsburg—and much more of a stalwart hero. How sad that at this very moment he was somewhere in the wilds, risking life and limb for his family, his colony, and most particularly, for his Mariah, as he called her. She forced her attention back to his father’s prayer.

  “And Father,” he continued, “we pray that You will find it in Your will to bring our son safely home to us. Soon.”

  “Amen.” Having blurted the word out unintentionally, Mariah felt warmth tinting her cheeks. But Colin had left in mid-February, after all, and it was now the end of May. They all were anxious for his return.

  “Yes. Amen.” Mr. Barclay’s voice contained a smile.

  Amy spoke up immediately. “Read the letter now. Please.”

  Enjoying the experience of being the belle of the moment, for a change, Mariah grinned and withdrew the folded paper from her pocket. Slowly she spread it and lifted it up, aware that every eye around the table focused on her. “The letter is date
d April twenty-first.”

  “That’s over a month old!” The mistress frowned.

  “Yes, it is. He writes: ‘My dearest Mariah, I miss you and my family very much. When I left I had hoped to be home again long before now, but alas, that was not to be. When we arrived at Wills Creek Station, we were met by militiamen under Lieutenant Trent. They had been sent ahead of us to build a fort on the Ohio River, our destination. A large force of Frenchmen came from upriver and took it from them. We are now awaiting a regiment of regulars to join us.’ ”

  “What are regulars?” Amy scrunched up her face.

  “British soldiers, my dear,” her father explained.

  “Surely that cannot be all he wrote. Do continue,” Mistress Barclay urged.

  Mariah returned her gaze to the lines penned by Colin’s hand. “ ‘We will proceed to Great Meadows in Indian Territory and wait for them there before engaging the enemy. Pray for the rain to stop. Tell my family I miss them all. Most sincerely yours, C. Barclay.’ ”

  Before anyone could speak, she held up a finger. “He added a postscript: ‘Tuck sends Tori his most ardent regards.’ ”

  Pinkening delicately, Victoria lowered her lashes and tried to contain her smile. It quickly wilted into a pout. “Tuck should’ve written a letter to me himself.”

  Heather sent her a sidelong glance tinged with a teasing grin. “Especially now that Tori’s learned the truth about those other ardent admirers of hers in Williamsburg.”

  “What’s this about?” Mr. Barclay looked from one of them to the other.

  His wife shook her head. “Nothing at all, Eldon. Really. Diana Everard wrote a snippet of news about two young men who’d demonstrated an interest in Victoria while we were in their city. It’s not of import.”

  Not to be put off, the older man narrowed his eyes. “What sort of demonstrating, if I might ask?” He pierced his oldest daughter with a speculative look.

  Mariah hid her smile behind her napkin. The man was ever the devoted husband and father. Rather like her own papa, to be truthful. The thought was oddly comforting.

  “It’s nothing to fret about, dear.” The mistress fluttered a hand. “Diana reported that Dr. Dunn’s son, Willard, would inherit very little because his father is quite lax in collecting payment for his services. And the other young man’s father—whom the lad alleged was in shipping—merely owns a ropewalk in Yorktown.”

  “What’s a ropewalk?” Amy tipped her head to one side.

  Her mother gave the child’s hand a pat. “It’s a place where men braid long strands of hemp into thick ropes for the ships.”

  “Well, it would appear then,” Heather piped in, her sly grin broadening, “that Ronald Sedley’s father truly is in shipping. Just not the very profitable merchant kind.” She snickered at her little jab.

  With a withering sneer at her sister, Victoria pursed her lips. “It means little to me. Neither of them was even a fraction as handsome or charming as Tuck, anyway.”

  “Or Edward Rochester,” her mother added. “The son of the richest merchant in Alexandria is not to be discounted.” She glanced around the table. “I vow, that’s quite enough talking. Your food is getting cold. I’m sure Mariah wishes to finish with your lessons before the day grows uncomfortably warm.”

  Mr. Barclay drained the remainder of his tea and set down his cup. “I’m more concerned by the storm clouds hovering over the mountains, myself. I hope it doesn’t rain too hard. The tobacco leaves are at such a delicate stage just now.”

  “Oh, la.” Leaving her chair, his wife stepped to the rear edge of the terrace and peered past the house to the west. She turned back with a frown. “At this very moment, our Colin must be in a miserable downpour.” Returning to her chair, she took the hand of a daughter on either side of her. “Everyone join hands. Our Father in heaven, I fervently pray that our son has a dry place to wait out the storm.”

  “And if not,” Mariah added, “please enfold him within Your merciful warmth and comfort.”

  Colin released a disappointed whoosh of air. He’d hoped Washington’s meeting with Chief Monakaduto would last a bit longer so he and the other men could rest from the fast-paced trek to Great Meadows. But less than half an hour found them on their way again, with the Seneca chief and two of his braves leading the way. Thankfully, these Indians set a slower pace than Monakaduto’s messenger had last night.

  As the misty rain turned to sprinkles, Colin restrapped his haversack inside his cloak, then stepped to the side of the elusive mountain path and whispered to each passing man. “Protect your powder. Keep it dry.”

  Every face held a grim expression, and Colin detected undisguised fear in more than a few eyes. This would be the first time any of them except Washington had ever faced a deadly enemy, and they were heading straight for the heavily armed French encampment.

  The sprinkles turned to rain that fell straight and hard despite the thick forest growth. Large dollops pelted Colin’s hat and frock coat and began to soak through to his skin. In no time at all, he was sure he couldn’t have been more drenched if he’d gone swimming. His boots slipped and slid along on muddy, dead leaves as he stumbled over roots and stones on the trail.

  Tuck moved up beside him, his tricorn drooping pitifully, his sword all but dragging on the ground. “If I survive this campaign,” he muttered through chattering teeth, “and if I ever show up at your door askin’ you to come play soldier again, you have my permission to shoot me. Right there on the spot.”

  Colin laughed aloud, the sound blasting into quiet broken only by the rush of falling rain. As Washington glanced back at him with a scowl, Colin slapped a gloved hand over his mouth.

  Tuck immediately fell into line behind him.

  Washington turned and raised a hand, halting the militia. He strode to Colin, swiping water from the leather haversack that held his paper cartridges as he walked.

  Colin swallowed, fully expecting the leader to reprimand him in front of the men.

  “Lieutenant Barclay,” the colonel said quietly, “send an order down the line to fix bayonets. I doubt our weapons will fire in this rain.”

  Fix bayonets? A niggle of fear chilled Colin’s blood. Hand-to-hand combat. As an officer, he’d been issued a pistol and a sword and had practice-fought alongside the enlisted men with their swordlike musket attachments. But the thought of actually slashing and stabbing other human beings had never seemed quite real. Until now. He steeled himself to sound confident before giving the order.

  About a quarter of an hour later, Monakaduto stopped and pointed ahead.

  The downpour had lessened to light sprinkles again. Without that cover of rain, Colin suddenly felt vulnerable.

  Washington gestured for Colin and Tuck to join him and the chief. Silently, pistols drawn, they moved forward from tree to tree. Praying all the while that the powder was still dry, Colin peered ahead. He could make out some men huddled beneath an outcropping of boulders in a stone cliff.

  Washington motioned for them to ease back. Ever so carefully, lest they be spotted, they backed away until they reached their party.

  “Order the men to spread out in a semicircle,” Washington said under his breath. “Have them move into firing position and await my order to fire. Lieutenant Barclay, take half the men to the right. Tucker, take yours to the left. Caution them against making any noise. With the element of surprise, a quick victory shall be ours. May the Lord keep and protect us.”

  As Colin positioned his men along the line, he felt compelled to whisper the leader’s plea to each of them. “May the Lord keep and protect you.” He knew this could very well be the last morning any of them might see.

  Taking his own position behind a tree, Colin aimed his pistol at one of the French soldiers crowded within the shallow cave. The thought of ending that unsuspecting man’s life disturbed him mightily, though he knew he had a duty to carry out. The safety of their own encampment at Great Meadows depended on it.

  Suddenly Washingto
n sprang into the open and gave a shout. “Fire!”

  Colin squeezed his pistol’s trigger and fired, but he heard only a dozen or so of the other weapons discharge.

  An instant later, Washington shouted through the swirling gunsmoke. “Charge!” Then their commander raced forth, his sword in one hand, a pistol in the other.

  Colin could do no less. Only a few sporadic shots came from the French, whose powder had become as damp as the militia’s.

  All was frenzy and fury, shouts and screams as Colin and the others swarmed the French, slicing and slashing in a violent rage.

  Reason caught hold of Colin when a Frenchman tossed his knife to the ground, raised his hands high, and shouted something in his language. The man was surrendering!

  About to slice down the fellow’s shoulder, Colin stayed his arm. Heaving for breath, he looked around and saw that the rest of the enemy still standing had done the same.

  The battle was over.

  Surveying the area, he saw blood splattered all around him, on him, and on his sword. Nine Frenchmen lay dead. A wounded enemy soldier sat propped against a rock trying to staunch the flow of blood from his side. Others, bleeding from various areas of the body, remained on their feet. Assessing the scene, the realization that he’d been a part of that carnage sank like a rock inside Colin.

  Chief Monakaduto let out an ear-piercing scream of victory as he thrust a bloodied scalp high into the air.

  Horrified and sickened by the gruesome sight, Colin knew he must not show his revulsion. He strode stiffly over to where a granite-faced Washington stood and forced himself to appear as calm as his commander while they watched the three Indians scalp the rest of the dead. His stomach roiled as he cut a glance at the prisoners. The stark fright clouding their eyes was palpable, as if they feared the possibility of suffering the same horrendous fate.

  Once the last dead man had been scalped, Monakaduto stepped across a body with the unfortunate victim’s scalp dangling from his hand. “Ensign Jumonville.” He thrust the bloody thing toward Washington.