Black Eagle

by Gen Bailey

  “I, too.” As Marisa waited, she gazed upward, her vision taking in the cloudless blue sky. To her right and to her left were trees of maple, elm, birch and more, and they seemed to go on forever.

  None of this territory was entirely new to Marisa, however, since she had grown up in the woodlands of upper New York State. However, the forest was so beautiful at this time of year, that its charm quite outweighed its terror, at least in her view of it.

  When at length Sarah caught up with her, Marisa said, “I think that you should not lag too far behind, Sarah. Perhaps we should make a pact to stay close to one another. Then if something happens, we will each one be there for the other.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sarah. “I’m certain you are right. And I wish I could enjoy it without fear, for it holds much charm.”

  “Yes, I agree.” Marisa smiled. “The woods are beautiful. Perhaps the longer we are on the trail, the more you might come to admire it without fear. Look there, the reds of the maple trees, the oranges of the oaks, the yellows and the greens, they are so vibrant at this time of year. And there are so many of them, that it seems as if the whole forest is afire with color. And overhead”—she gestured upward—“is the bluest of skies.”

  Sarah nodded. “It almost seems as if the hills themselves are alive.”

  “Exactly.”

  By mutual consent, the two women nudged their mounts forward, following after Black Eagle. Within a moment, however, Marisa was contented to continue in the same line of thought, and she said, “Even the air is different from Albany. It has a slight fragrance of pine. Have you noticed?”

  “I have. It is, indeed, most invigorating.”

  At present a westerly wind brushed against Marisa’s backside, imparting with it a sense of security, and off to the eastern side of the trail, the sound of a rushing brook lent the air an ongoing sort of music. Moisture from the stream cooled the atmosphere, and made the air sit more easily on the lungs.

  Black Eagle, who was in the lead, was by now far ahead of them. In fact, Richard Thompson, who normally lagged far behind, was almost upon the two women.

  “Come, Sarah, let us catch up to Sir Eagle. It wouldn’t do to have him outdistance our horses.”

  Sarah nodded, and as they set their mounts into a faster walk, the two women fell silent.

  The path they were following was well traveled, and since it took little attention to steer the animal, Marisa let her attention slip back in time, to a few hours previous.

  After Marisa had left Black Eagle in the livery, she had discovered that Richard Thompson was awaiting her at the Rathburn mansion. She, however, had spared the man little regard, not even to admonish him for the lateness of his arrival.

  Instead she had gone straight to James. It had been a difficult thing to do, particularly so since the only communication she desired with the man was one that was best done with a firearm. However, she’d had no choice, since he had stood between herself and her guardian.

  After admonishing James for his behavior with Sarah, and threatening him with the Albany authorities, Marisa had demanded to speak to her guardian. Now she wished she hadn’t even done that. There had been no visible result because of it, and it had required her to speak to a man that she now abhorred.

  She had finally written Rathburn a note. Putting her feelings into words had been most agonizing, her shame deepening when her guardian had refused to acknowledge her.

  In her note, she had offered her step-uncle an olive branch, had apologized for her “crime” of upsetting him, had even gone on to explain why she had felt it necessary to assert her independence. She had also assured him that he need not worry, for she had every intention of doing her duty by him and, upon her return, would consider marriage.

  The last part of her letter, however, caused her to cringe in remembrance; she now wished she could take back the words:

  Step-uncle, I beg you to come down and see me off on this journey. Let us put the last few days behind us and renew our liking for one another. I beseech you not to let me go without so much as a fare thee well.

  But her pleading had been for nothing. John Rathburn had remained adamant in his condemnation of her. She supposed that to his way of thinking, her independence had wronged him, and there was nothing she could do to repair the damage done.

  Marisa sighed, and turning her attention to the spectacular sights of the beauty surrounding her, she tried to set her mind to other things. But like a dark cloud that followed and vexed her, her step-uncle’s rejection was not to be put so lightly aside.

  The sign read:

  WILTON’S TAVERN Last Chance for Rum in the Adirondacks Established 1679

  The hut was situated about twenty-five miles north of Albany, on the eastern side of the trail. Built of crude logs, the tavern seemed to be an oasis, and Marisa thought that it might very well be the last trace of civilization to be found, at least until they at last arrived on the eastern seaboard in New Hampshire. Positioned on the far right side of the trail, with its front facing out toward the road, it was an unusual place in that its back was built downward, extending out toward a fast flowing stream. Even from a distance, Marisa could see that there were logs cut out for stools, as well as crude tables, which were scattered out back of the tavern. Plus, because the inn was situated on slightly higher ground than the stream, there was a swinging footbridge that extended over the water.

  At present, no one was taking enjoyment of the picnic area, and Marisa wondered if the fault were that of the establishment itself, or if the men who might frequent the place felt more at home inside. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter to her. After several hours on the road, it looked to be a little bit of heaven.

  Black Eagle, who was at the lead of their party, had paused here, awaiting the women and Thompson, the latter very far to their rear. When Sarah and Marisa drew rein in front of the tavern, they found Black Eagle deep in conversation with the man who might be the tavern keeper.

  Upon seeing the women arrive, Black Eagle finished his exchange with the man, and both men turned to walk toward the women. Taking hold of their horses’ reins, Black Eagle led the animals to a wooden post erected in front of the tavern, while the innkeeper followed.

  As Black Eagle tied the reins to the post, he said, “The innkeeper says there is a room that you could rent for the night, and venison stew for supper. It might be wise to take advantage of the room and the food, rather than exhaust our own supply.”

  “I think you are right,” said Marisa, who accepted the innkeeper’s helping hand down.

  “Injuns,” commented the man under his breath. “Don’t rightly know why they feel it beneath them to help a lady down from her mount. Just tain’t in their manners, I guess. Welcome, ladies.”

  Marisa smiled at the man. “Thank you. Am I right in assuming that you might be Mr. Wilton? ”

  “No, ma’am. Mr. Wilton was my grandpappy. My name’s Stiler. Matt Stiler.”

  “Well, hello, Mr. Stiler. I am Marisa Jameson, and this is my companion and friend, Sarah Strong. We are en route to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to visit the Appletons, who own property there and who are good friends of my family.”

  “The Appletons, eh?” Mr. Stiler rubbed his stubbled chin. “Don’t think I know of ’em, Miss Jameson, but don’t make no difference. You and your maid are welcome to stay here for the night. No charge. Tain’t often we have a lady such as yourself stay with us.” Stiler paced toward Sarah’s mount, whereupon he helped Sarah down from her seating.

  “I wouldn’t hear of imposing on your hospitality without paying sufficient coin,” Marisa said, opening her purse and offering the man two gold coins. “Both Sarah and I understand the inconvenience of guests, though I can assure you that we appreciate your offer.”

  “Thank you, miss.” Stiler pocketed the coins. “Now if you’ll both come this way, I’ll introduce you to my missus.”

  Marisa nodded, and taking hold of Sarah’s arm, they followed the innkeeper,
leaving Black Eagle to await Thompson.

  Thompson was drunk. No doubt, that was his slurred voice, along with a few others, that was raised in singing a ditty or two, with one song following right after the other. But the good Lord be praised, Thompson was at least keeping himself holed up inside the tavern and hadn’t ventured out into the back, where both Marisa and Sarah were seated.

  At present, both the young women were surrounded by log stools and carved tables, which were scattered out back of the tavern. About ten feet away ran a shallow, quick-rushing stream, its splashing against the rocks and the shoreline a welcome backdrop to the rustling of the wind through the trees. Crickets and other nightly creatures were beginning their serenade, while within her line of vision Marisa could discern the figure of Black Eagle, who stood sentry off in the distance.

  He was leaning on his musket, and though Marisa was still feeling less than kindly toward him, there was one aspect about the man that she could not deny: He cut a handsome figure. Though she could barely make out the blue of his tunic, the remembrance of how the style of his leggings allowed for a clear view of masculine thigh and buttocks remained etched upon her mind.

  Evening was falling over the land, the last rays of the sun coloring the golds, reds and oranges of the leaves with the pinks and corals of sunset. Even the brown bark of the trees, and the dry grass mirrored the sky, allowing a pinkish glow to settle over the landscape. It was an extraordinary sight.

  Above her, the clouds were set afire with the same fiery color, while closer to hand, their crude-cut tables and stools mirrored the evening sky. There were trees everywhere, pine, oak, elm, maple and white birch; they surrounded this place, and they sheltered and hid the two women. The scent of smoke, of barbecued venison and of stewing meat permeated the air, and combined with the fragrance of the last vestiges of fall, it induced a feeling of well-being within Marisa.

  Odd that such a feeling should come over her in this rough and untamed place. Yet she couldn’t deny that something here moved her; it was as though she were awakening from a slumber of mind and soul, as though something within her were being coaxed to life.

  She inhaled deeply, recognizing the scent of pine mixed within the other fragrances pervading the air.

  “Are you tired? ” asked Sarah.

  “No,” answered Marisa, as she gave Sarah a critical look. Sarah’s color was good, however, Marisa feared that only time would heal the cut to her lip, as well as the gash that extended from her eye to her nose. “Are you? ”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I am very tired,” said Sarah. “Indeed, I am looking forward to that bed in the inn. In fact, I think I might enjoy it all the more since it may be the last true bed that we’ll be seeing for many a night.”

  “I believe you are right. Are you thinking of retiring, then? ”

  Sarah yawned. “The thought has crossed my mind.” She smiled. “What of you? Are you ready to go to bed? ”

  “Not yet I think. But please, don’t stand on ceremony. I beg you to seek your bed and rest. It has been an unusual as well as a long day.”

  “But are you not tired? You have had little to no sleep.”

  “No, perhaps I should be tired, but I am not. For the moment, my mind is racing and I fear that I would find little sleep if I sought my bed so soon.”

  Sarah nodded, although she could barely stifle another yawn. She said, “Perhaps it is the food that makes me so sleepy. It was delicious.”

  “Yes, it was.” Marisa’s glance at Sarah was again studious. “Should I take you to the inn and tuck you in? ”

  Sarah grinned. “No, but the idea has some merit. Still, I’m not accustomed to going to bed before you do.”

  “That very well may be, yet I see no harm, and a great deal of good, in your retiring now. Sarah, I think you need the rest.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll be assaulted if you leave? ”

  “The thought has occurred to me. We are, after all, surrounded by men, many of whom appear to be intoxicated.”

  “True, but if the men in the tavern get too rowdy, I can appeal to Sir Eagle, who seems to be standing guard over there.” Marisa nodded toward him.

  “Mayhap that is the reason I should stay.” There was a twinkle in Sarah’s eye.

  “I wouldn’t hear of it, Sarah. I’ll be fine.”

  Sarah leaned forward to place her arms on the table. “Marisa, tell me. Do you think you are in love with him? ”

  “Who? ”

  “Sir Eagle.”

  Marisa could feel a muscle twitch briefly in her cheek; she also took her time in answering. But at last, she said, “Were there no one else to worry about—no one to scold me or reprimand me, I might be inclined to consider that question more deeply, since I do find the man fascinating. But as it is impossible to live in a world where there are no other people, I would have to say that I am wise enough not to fall in love with him.”

  “And if people’s attitudes were different? ”

  “But that is an impossible question: Their attitude is not different. ’Tis bad enough that the one time I decide to rebel, I am unable to hide the occurrence from one and all. ’Twas my fault, I admit, but . . .”

  “Ah, I see. When taken as a whole, it would be easier had no one known? ”

  “Indeed. But I had little time to consider such matters at the time. As you might recall, it all happened quickly. Looking back on it now, I can hardly credit what came over me. There I was at the dance, glancing over to see my guardian’s disapproval of me, and the look on his face, and all simply because I was talking to someone he believed was beneath me.”

  “ ’Tis too bad that one man feels superior to another simply because of differences in culture.”

  “It angered me, because it was done despite the fact that the young man has done nothing but flatter me and make me smile.”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “But there was more. For whatever reason, while there at the ball, I had recalled that time long ago, when my step-uncle had called me to his study and had made his plans for my future well known to me. I had forgotten.”

  “So had I,” said Sarah.

  “And then there was James. I swear that man has no leave to think badly of me, yet he, too, scowled at me for simply associating with someone that he considered beneath me, and he made a move toward me, as if to stop me. Had I not done what I did . . .”

  “You would have been made over into a slave to your step-uncle’s whims,” said Sarah. “I see it now. If you were to be true to yourself, you literally had no choice but to rebel against your step-uncle.”

  Marisa frowned, but said nothing.

  “And so here you are,” continued Sarah, “on a journey with a man upon whom you conferred your favor, thinking to never have the pleasure of his company again.”

  “Yes. And I fear that each time I see him, I am not only reminded of my folly, but I fear I recall again the satisfaction of his embrace. And Sarah, I cannot do it again. Not ever. You do understand that, don’t you? ”

  Sarah frowned.

  “ ’Tis one thing to do it once in an act of rebellion.” Marisa continued, “To then try to put your fall from grace behind you, and to settle down and endeavor to become respectable. It is quite another to continually commit the act that should be confined to only those who are married, or to those who make their living by it.”

  “And of course you can never marry him, thus to continue the affair would put you in the class of the latter.”

  “Exactly.” Marisa paused. Then wistfully, she murmured, “He most definitely should have told me who he was.”

  Sarah sat silently for some time, then clearing her throat, she said, “Did you and he talk of what might happen if there were to be a child? ”

  “No,” Marisa answered at once. “But I should have thought of it. It was sheer madness on my part. A pleasant madness, I confess. But madness, nonetheless.”

  Sarah looked hesi
tant, but after a time, she said, “Well, since this is to be your only induction into a real romance, I should hope that he showered you with love.”

  Marisa smiled. “He did.”

  “And did you return it? ”

  “At the time, I think I did.”

  “You could simply refuse to return to Albany,” suggested Sarah. “Once we are in New Hampshire, you could find a new life for yourself there.”

  “You know that is not an option for me. Whatever else my step-uncle might be, he also ensured my upbringing, and for that I owe him at least my loyalty.”

  Sarah sighed. “Was Sir Eagle’s loving enough, do you think, for the memory to last you a lifetime? I ask because you do realize that if you return to Albany, your step-uncle will marry you off to someone else, and certainly to someone of fortune, be the man old and decrepit or young and ugly.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Marisa said, “but have you considered that the man he chooses might be young and handsome? ”

  “Do you really think so? With your step-uncle doing the selecting? ”

  Marisa stirred uneasily. “How right you are. And yet I cannot do anything other than give my step-uncle my loyalty. I do owe him that.”

  “Do you? ”

  “You know that I do.”

  “Yes, I suppose I can understand why you would think so. And yet, I can hardly keep from observing that if a man does not have your best interest at heart, do you truly owe him your allegiance? If a man raised you, yet wished to kill you, would you let him do so? ”

  “I hardly think he wishes to kill me.”

  “No,” said Sarah, “of course he doesn’t. However, the point still remains.”

  “And it is a point I cannot consider. John Rathburn may be all kinds of vile things. But he took me in and raised me. And I would hardly be worthy of being human if I didn’t wish to contribute back to him, would I? ”

  Sarah touched Marisa’s hand. “You are one of the sweetest people I have ever known. Perhaps too good for the likes of John Rathburn.”