Up and across, down and backward, the jangle of sword and bayonet moved across the yard and echoed down the well as they searched the forsaken homestead. The dogs sniffed and barked. Paul shouted at Brown and Ward to check the barn again while he searched the yard one last time.
Henry clutched the rope so tight that liquid could have dripped from the brittle fibers. Footsteps approached. ’Twas as if Paul knew where he hid. Surely he must. For though Paul was only a year behind him in age, his skills as a soldier were second only to his own. But pride had always weakened the strength of Paul’s abilities. The selfsame pride that had led to Captain Samuel Martin’s death.
Henry strangled a groan in his throat, the face of his despised superior rearing to life from the graveyard of memory. His stomach turned and he breathed out. Samuel could no longer plague him. God willing, in time, neither would Paul.
Just then, Stockton neared the well and Henry ground his teeth. Lord, do not let him find me.
Paul’s shadowed figure peered in and Henry stilled every muscle. Closing his eyes, Henry prayed as if his salvation depended upon it. For certainly his earthly salvation did. At once the figure turned back, yelling. “Anything?” Paul’s silhouette disappeared and Henry allowed his lungs to drag in slow, quiet breaths.
“No, sir,” Jimmy Brown answered. “Only his coat.” The young soldier sounded more distressed than pleased.
Such a good boy you are, Jimmy.
“Could you worthless dogs not smell him out?” Paul cursed. “Blast it all! He could not have vanished. Brown, I need you and Ward to continue south until you reach the river. Return to camp before nightfall then report to me—tell no one else of this. We must be sure we’ve checked all avenues of escape. I refuse to return empty handed.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Be quick about it!”
The pathetic message hidden in Paul’s words gave away everything. So, Ezra Stockton hadn’t ordered them after him? This was Paul’s doing, and asking for more men meant alerting his father of what he planned to do. Henry allowed a smile to breach his lips while he enjoyed the sweet taste of upsetting the enemy. Then that was how he’d risen in Ezra Stockton’s favor and how Paul had fallen. Following orders was a soldier’s duty. Somehow, Paul had never understood that.
Receding sounds of boots and dogs lasted only a moment until finally all was silent. At long last Henry allowed his starving lungs to indulge fully in the stale air that surrounded him. He might have gagged at the stench if his relief hadn’t overpowered every other sense.
He stood straighter and looked down at his boots now covered to the ankle in muddy water. The sun rested high in the heavens, the heat of summer reaching down to find him in the pleasant shade of the earth. He need only wait until nightfall. Then, if he could negotiate with his unwilling arm, he might make it back out, and God willing, journey the last twenty miles to Sandwich. His arm throbbed until his teeth nearly cracked from keeping his jaw clenched against the pain. If only the wrappings hadn’t unraveled in his attempt to escape. He looked up again, the blood on his fingers suddenly forcing him to reevaluate his plan.
He debated the alternatives while his arm pled for mercy. Climbing out now, even if to bandage his wound, could bring the end upon him. Paul might even now be stroking his pistol in the shadows of the wood. He couldn’t have missed the drops of blood that no doubt dotted the ground. How the dogs had missed them Henry would never know. Tender mercies of God no doubt.
Henry peered up. Revealing himself was too much of a risk. His arm throbbed, forcing the final decision. Emerging from this blessed hiding spot could mean the noose, but staying here much longer meant certain death.
A prayer at his lips, Henry grasped hold of the rope, pressed his back against one side, his foot against the other and started upward.
The closer he inched to sunlight, the more fervent he prayed. Lord, let me emerge to find no one waiting.
Henry slowed when the warmth of the sun crested his hair and he peered over the ledge just enough to allow his vision to comb the trees. Green leaves, brown tree trunks, bushes, dirt. Nothing else. That he could see…
With a giant heave, he hoisted his legs over the edge and fell to his knees, his muscles cramping. Bathed in the yellow light of mid-day, Henry grimaced as he peeled the red-soaked cloth from the gash in his arm. A thousand curses collided on his tongue. This was no minor wound. He needed a doctor. The wrap from two days ago had stayed the bleeding temporarily, and it seemed the wound nearly closed on its own, but after today’s maltreatment, it would need to be stitched.
A crack echoed in the woods and Henry spun. The click of a weapon preparing to fire stopped his blood. He hurled to his feet and dashed for the cabin, lunging against the floor beneath the clouded window. Dust from the ground billowed around him in the shafts of sunlight. Henry suppressed a growl in his throat, working his jaw back and forth as he counted the ways his enemy had wronged him. But such thoughts only heated—and wasted—his precious blood.
When he’d scanned the room and found nothing to use as a weapon, he stilled, training every thought on the sounds outside the walls of his battered fortress. No brushing of boots against the ground, no heaving breath. Only the music of birds and wind-swept branches played on the breeze.
Henry pushed up and propped himself against the wall. Was he a coward for running? In that moment his mind played tricks upon him as his vision landed upon a pair of pale green eyes, worn and tired, but so full of maternal love his spirit tore within him. What did it matter if he were killed? Now that his mother and sisters were freed from their crippled bodies they no longer needed his pay—no longer shed tears for what he’d done.
He stopped there. The recollections threatened to yank his beating heart from his chest. Yet, somehow, the memories refused to be ignored. He rubbed the few smallpox scars on his face, recalling Julia’s bright smile and Jane’s song-like voice. If not for him, if not for his foolishness, they would have lived. Or at least, they would not have died alone.
Senses ever alert, Henry froze as the anticipated footsteps drew near. He pushed himself to his feet, keeping his back against the wall. Fists clenched, stance wide, the pain in his arm receded as he prepared for the attacker to become the attacked.
“Donaldson,” Paul yelled. “You’re a fool. You should have known I would wait for you.”
Just then he dove through the door. Henry lunged and rammed his shoulder into Paul, at the same time clutching the wrist of the hand that gripped the ready pistol. Paul pushed against him, but the chorus of recent ills pumped iron through Henry’s veins. He slammed him against the opposite wall and wedged his forearm just beneath Paul’s jaw.
“I did know you waited.” Hot breath seethed from Henry’s mouth. He pressed harder, enjoying the way Paul’s throat worked for breath against his arm.
Paul’s face turned red, then crimson, then edged to purple. Henry eased his pressure just enough to allow the man a thread of air.
“You came after me alone,” Henry seethed. He knew, but wanted to hear it from the mouth of his enemy.
“Father is an idiot for not killing you when he had the chance.” Paul’s face contorted. “I would never let a patriot-sympathizer desert.”
Henry restored the full force of his arm and Paul gasped, but Henry spoke over his fight for breath. “You know nothing about me.”
“Gah…” Paul tried to answer, tugging on Henry’s arm. He eased the pressure and Paul blinked as he gained a small breath. “I know enough.”
“I did what was right.” Somehow his muscles hardened even more. It seemed the army cared less and less about what was honorable. Which is why he left.
“You’re a deserter—”
Henry slammed Paul’s wrist against the wall, forcing the gun to drop from his enemy’s fingers. He kicked it away and grabbed a fist-full of fabric at Paul’s throat then yanked him out the door. Teeth clenched, Henry all but lifted him from the ground as he spoke to him nose to nose
. “There are reasons your father trusts me and not you.”
He released with a shove and Paul stumbled back, barely staying on his feet. With a swift move of his arm, Paul reached for the dagger at his side and jabbed. Henry sidestepped. The incoming blade sliced through his shirt. A roar bellowed from Paul when he swiped again. Henry dodged and planted the heel of his boot in the center of Paul’s ribs. He dropped to the ground with a wild groan.
One hand on his chest, the other still wielding the blade, Paul gasped for air through contorted lips. His eyes turned black as hatred etched itself into the lines of his mouth.
A quick brush of the breeze calmed the rage that threatened to force Henry’s hand. He stepped back and stared at the man, who of a sudden seemed more like a scared boy than a seasoned man of war.
“I don’t wish to fight you, Paul.” Every letter of the sentence held more veracity than the man would ever know. But he had to go on. “I cannot continue in something I don’t believe in.”
Paul peeled himself from the ground, the blade and his gaze never once dropping. “Your charade of goodwill will not shadow the truth.” He took a step back. “I know who you really are.” This time, his eyes faltered and his throat bobbed. “As does my father, make no mistake.”
The two held their stance. Henry glanced at the knife, the sunlight glinting off the red stone in the hilt. He readied his fists. “You will not take me, Paul.”
“Will I not?” His knife-hand thrust forward until it waited only inches from Henry’s face.
Henry refused to move his stare from the enemy. Paul’s frame might have matched Henry’s in height, but his strength was not near equal. And Paul knew it.
Paul’s neck muscles worked, and the twitch in his face revealed the war within him. “You’re a traitor.” His hand trembled. “You’re a rebel traitor, you son of a—.”
“Get out.” Henry barely contained the urge to lunge and strangle. He opened and closed his fists to stem the aching for Paul’s throat.
Still facing him, Paul stepped backward toward the wood, face contorted. “You cannot hide forever. Do not doubt I will find you and give you the justice you deserve. I will find you, Donaldson.”
Blinding fury turned Henry’s vision red. “And I will be ready.”
CHAPTER TWO
The familiar smell of tobacco smoke stung Paul’s throat as he inhaled, but it was the bitter stare in his father’s eyes that stiffened his back. “Sir, I believed you would wish him found. I took it upon myself to—”
“You pursued your own directive, is that it?” Ezra Stockton didn’t look up as he walked from the window to stand in front of Paul. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead while the familiar cloud of discontent shadowed his face. Paul’s muscles went hard. It would be a blessing if the perspiration stemmed from the oppressive summer heat and not anger. But Paul knew better.
Empty but for the desk and chair that rested woefully in front of the window, the room seemed to breathe apologies in the stale, humid air. Even nature felt pity for Paul’s misbegotten plight. All the while his father inhaled his pipe and piled looks of ill-will upon his offspring.
When Ezra refused to speak, Paul labored to ameliorate the poisonous silence. “We looked everywhere—”
“Did you? Did you?” The flash of black in Ezra’s glare slapped Paul like a hand against his face. “If that were the case, which I know it is not, then would not Donaldson be standing in front of me now?” He paced the room then stopped with such a start his shoes scraped against the floor. “You deliberately went against my orders. Again!”
More than a slap this time. The words slugged Paul in the chest and suddenly Donaldson’s hateful words buzzed in his ears. There are reasons your father trusts me and not you. “I did what was right—”
“Silence! Your actions were a blatant dereliction of duty,” Ezra barked. “You sought your own interest. As usual.” He sneered, as if the words tasted bitter. “Donaldson is too clever. Smarter than you, and aye, smarter than even myself.”
Longing waved behind the dark gray of Ezra’s eyes as he stared into the corner of the room. “He took to soldiering like a horse takes to running.” He gestured to Paul. “You, on the other hand, despite my endless and careful training, have never learned to follow orders. You have never learned that your place is not to question, it is to obey. Aye, I have been hard on you, but only because I see your potential for greatness. A potential that you have never embraced. Your actions bring shame upon me and upon His Majesty’s Army, and I will have no more of it.”
Paul ground his teeth, back rigid, arms at his sides. His father was a blind fool. Pursuing a man who aided the colonists and bringing him to justice was not something to be slandered. But Ezra wouldn’t see it that way no matter how truthful. “If you would only—”
“Nothing will change you into the kind of man I should have for a son. You are slothful, ignorant, and self-centered.” His father stopped in front of him. Another plume of freshly exhaled smoke soured the air around Paul’s head. “Donaldson was loyal, determined, fearless, and—”
“Loyal?” The rage that he’d bottled shot skyward. Somewhere Donaldson raced to freedom, a freedom he didn’t deserve. A freedom he’d bought with his devil’s nature. Yet here his father said Donaldson had been loyal? “He is a traitor to the crown. He has aided numerous colonists in escaping capture. You favor him.”
“I favor no one!” Ezra’s face reddened as he stomped forward. Paul’s stomach clenched. So did his fists. He opened his mouth, but his father cut him off.
“How dare you slander me! I am your superior officer as well as the man who gave you life. Your behavior is insubordinate.”
“Do forgive me, Father.”
Shock and rage weaved through Ezra’s expression at Paul’s mocking. Instantly, the still-hovering words clashed with the greater need that swirled in Paul’s chest. His father would never accept the truth of what must be done. Though it pained him to the very core, submitting now might be the only way to attain the higher goal. “I…I beg you to…to please indulge me one last word.”
Ezra stared, blinking long and slow. “Well?”
“I know a man—a mercenary of sorts—who could track a field mouse in a blizzard.” Paul stepped forward. “Allow me to send him a message, to let him know of our plight. I know he would find Donaldson and bring him to us. It would take only as much effort as giving him a few coins.”
With an audible exhale, Ezra stepped back and leaned against the desk. He folded his arms around his sturdy chest. “So, you would spend the king’s money to hire someone to do the job you took upon yourself but were too incompetent to complete?”
“I would only wish to see Donaldson brought to stand trial for what he’s done.”
Ezra’s brow folded and he breathed in and out, one eye twitching. The even tone of his voice said as much as his words. “Let it alone, Paul.”
“Let it alone?” Paul’s volume heated. “Donaldson must be found and punished for desertion—”
“Do you know how many soldiers have deserted this army?”
“Aye. Which is why we should pursue him. We must show what will be done to those who do not fulfill their duty to the crown.”
Ezra set down his pipe and closed the distance between them. He reached out and cupped Paul’s shoulder, the sudden calmness in his face lurching Paul’s suspicion. “Let the man go, son. We have more important things to occupy our time than chasing someone who will never be found.”
Ezra dropped his hand and the tender moment faded, allowing the ever-present color of disdain that lurked in the back of his eyes to peek out from behind the pretended kindness.
Paul fought the disgust that worked its way from his chest to his face, the truth blasting through him like a musket at close range. His father cared for Donaldson. Cared for him so much he was willing to overlook the law and a soldier’s commitment to duty to let the man get away with crimes for which he should be killed. He stared at
Ezra as the man walked around his desk and took his seat, a signal the conversation was over.
Years of resentment turned Paul’s chest to granite. The confrontation at the cabin lunged from his memory and refused to vanish. The incompetent dogs, the vacant home, how he’d been trapped and forced to run when all he’d wished to do was fight. He seethed, inhaling the hot air deep into his lungs. Only a coward would choose to hide instead of accepting the consequences of his actions like a man of honor. Nay. Honor and loyalty had no place in Donaldson, despite what his father believed. Donaldson lied. He had said Ezra trusted him only as a way of cutting where he knew it would wound Paul the deepest. They’d labored side by side since their first days in America. They tolerated each other as soldiers but hated each other as men.
The more Paul thumbed through the ills his enemy had handed him, the more his neck heated. Lost commissions. Denied praises. Subjected to hearing the many ways Donaldson was superior. It could not be borne.
“I’m sending you to Virginia.” Ezra’s sudden words yanked Paul from his thoughts.
“What?”
Ezra pulled a folded paper from the drawer and extended it to Paul. “The colonists there are nearly as belligerent as those in Massachusetts.”
Paul stepped forward and took the note, immediately opening it and pouring over the words. A volley of curses readied for firing.
Heart pounding, he swallowed before he spoke. “With all due respect, sir, my work here is not finished.”
Ezra rose from his seat. “You are going south, and I am leaving for Boston within the hour.”
Rage turned his muscles to steel. “How can you—”
“Out of my sight.” Ezra turned and waved him away as if he were the errand boy.
Turning, Paul stomped from the room, still gripping the paper in his hand. The shock of what transpired stabbed with the thrust of a blade. How could the man hate him so? After all he’d done for him? Paul growled aloud and exited the house through the back door, grateful for the sounds and constant motion of the city.
So Rare a Gift (Daughters of His Kingdom Book 3) Page 2
