by Beth White
Charlie heard the bolt scrape across the door and the key turn in the lock. He waited, standing with his back against the wall, for several minutes, then when no one else approached, slid bonelessly to the ground. He looked up at the gouged wood around the plate that fastened his chains to the wall.
He would be out of here well before daybreak. He would never see Fiona Lanier again, nor her plethora of cousins and brothers and uncles.
A wave of depression nearly flattened him.
Sehoy leaned on the paddock rail, watching Fiona exercise the monstrous horse they called Washington after the first American president—the one who had cunningly used Indian tactics of warfare to outwit the redcoat army many years ago. She wondered what would have happened if General Washington had been commander of the troops trying to keep the British from invading this time. Would they have already claimed a resounding victory, instead of this dismal, win-some, lose-some effort that seemed doomed to drag out for another year or more?
She wouldn’t have cared, except Oliver was bent on joining his cousin Sullivan in sacrificing himself for his country. And Fiona was starving herself into a decline over that handsome, two-faced Englishman Charlie Kincaid. Sehoy could see nothing she herself could do about the situation. Fiona didn’t want to talk about it at all, Oliver said little enough in deference to Sehoy’s feelings of loathing toward Generals Andrew Jackson and John Coffee, and there was no one to whom she could unburden herself about the cipher locked in her trunk.
Why on earth had she agreed to keeping it, surely an act of treason toward her benefactors? And what if they found it on her? Would she be interrogated and disgraced as Fiona had been? She’d been so hurt and traumatized by the nightmares about Horseshoe Bend that any way to exact revenge had seemed sweet. By now the lines had gotten all blurry again. Charlie Kincaid—as best she could determine—was no hero, and she couldn’t think of any good reason she should be helping him sneak information to his British commanders.
Except for the fact that she had promised . . .
“Fiona!” she called out. “I’m going to get my sketch book. I’ll be right back.”
When Fiona gave her a halfhearted wave, Sehoy walked to the house, passing Desi Palomo, Oliver, and Uncle Luc, who sat on the porch respectively chewing a toothpick, carving some sea creature, and smoking a pipe. Léon was presumably down at the shipyard, inspecting the progress of the ship.
Sehoy slipped into the bedroom she shared with Fiona and knelt before her trunk. It had gotten a little battered in transport to and from Mobile, but it was still beautiful and it still filled her with awe that she owned something so valuable. She unlocked it with the little key Uncle Luc had given her, hanging from a string around her neck, and lifted the lid. She took her art satchel from the hidden compartment in the bottom of the trunk, replaced the cover, and locked the trunk once more.
When she got out to the porch, Oliver put down his knife and smiled. “Are you going out to the beach to draw? Want some company?”
“No, you men are comfortable, and I want to be by myself to think. I’m going to the barn, to maybe sketch the little goats.”
Oliver’s smile faded. “Oh. All right then. I’ll see you when you get back.”
She had hurt his feelings, but she had to get rid of this cipher. She supposed she could just burn it—but couldn’t quite make herself go that far. “Thanks for understanding. I’ll be back in a little bit.” Giving Oliver an uncertain smile, she headed for the barn with her satchel clutched under her arm.
So that she wouldn’t be caught in a lie, she marched straight for the stall where the little goats slept. Fiona let them out of the barn to play in the pasture for a few hours every day, but they were inside now, nursing. The nanny maa-ed a greeting as she went into the stall, but otherwise ignored her. Sehoy sat down in the straw with her back against the wall, opened the satchel, and took out her charcoal and paper. With a few quick strokes she sketched the nanny and the twins. In spite of her anxiety, she enjoyed the coarse, wooly texture of the babies’ hair, the funny knobs on their heads that would turn into horns, their eyes closed in an ecstatic milk coma.
Her pencil slowed, and tears stung her eyes at the thought of leaving behind, for good, this place she’d come to think of as home. How could she have even considered doing anything to jeopardize her place in the Lanier family? Pushing the paper off her lap into the straw, leaving the charcoal on top of it, she rose and brushed off her skirt. With a deep breath for courage, she made herself leave the stall, satchel in hand, and approach the tack room door.
She scratched at the door. “Charlie? Are you awake?” What did he do in there all day? She’d have long since gone mad from boredom. Oliver said he’d given the prisoner a Bible to read, but that didn’t seem like a book Charlie Kincaid would be interested in. He liked swimming and fishing and building things and making jokes and tripping people up in their own words. Way too smart for his own good, as Uncle Luc-Antoine put it.
When there was no answer, she knocked. “Charlie? It’s me, Sehoy.”
“What do you want?” Charlie’s voice was husky, sleepy-sounding.
“I’m sorry to wake you up, but I need to talk to you.”
There was a moment’s silence, then, “Do they know you’re out here?”
“Yes. I brought my drawing paper. But—it’s important. I want to give you back your . . . you know.”
This time his voice came from right on the other side of the door. “You still have it?”
“Of course I still have it. Did you think I’d burn it?” Guiltily she reminded herself that she wasn’t going to do that, not really.
“I didn’t know. I was fairly sure you hadn’t told anyone you had it. I can’t have that on me, Sehoy. They’re getting ready to move me to Mobile, and they’ll search me. Probably you should burn it after all.”
“No, I—I’m going to slide it under the door. It’s yours and I don’t want responsibility for it.”
“Listen, Sehoy, I know you didn’t give me up, and I appreciate it. If things get . . . difficult for you when the British take over here, you just give my name, and you’ll be taken care of. Understand?”
“You really think that’s going to happen?”
“Oh, it’ll happen. Count on it.”
She licked suddenly dry lips. “If you say so. What about Fiona?”
“Take care of her, Sehoy. Promise me.” His voice sounded strangled.
“I promise. Here’s the paper then.” Crouching she took the parchment out of its bag and slid it under the door. “I’ll have to keep the pouch, it won’t fit—”
“That’s all right. But you’d better go. I don’t want them to catch you talking to me.”
“Charlie, I’m sorry for you and Fiona.”
She waited, but he didn’t answer. Blinking away silly, awkward tears, she put the oilskin pouch back in her art bag and went back to the stall for her sketch book. To her dismay, she found the little goats gnawing on it, leaving the charcoal so smeared that you couldn’t even tell what the picture was. She sat down and cried with her head on her knees.
Oh dear, oh dear. Poor goats. Poor Charlie. Poor Fiona.
Sometime in the middle of the night Fiona sat up, wide awake. After she and Sehoy went to bed after dark, she’d lain awake for over an hour, tossing and turning, thinking about Charlie and worrying over what would happen to him. When she finally went to sleep, she dreamed of chasing him on horseback off a cliff and scrambling down a high bluff onto the beach below, then galloping across the blinding white sand straight into the ocean. Rolling waves crested against Bonnie’s chest as she struggled to catch up to Charlie’s horse. Just as Charlie disappeared under the water, Fiona awoke, gasping for air as if she were the one drowning.
“Sehoy!” she whispered. “Sehoy, are you awake?” She felt for her cousin’s shoulder.
The other side of the bed was flat, empty.
“Sehoy?” Fiona lit the bedside candle. The covers had
been neatly folded back, and Sehoy’s dressing gown and slippers were missing from the foot of the bed, as was her candle. Where had she gone?
She couldn’t think of any reason for shy, introverted Sehoy to venture outdoors alone in the middle of the night. Perhaps Fiona’s own flirtation with treason made her suspicious of others, but she couldn’t squelch the feeling that Sehoy must be up to something questionable.
She felt about for her slippers, then decided boots would be a better choice for stomping around in the yard in the dark. Her cloak went on over her dressing gown, for the temperature would have dropped once the sun went down, and she could hear the gulf breeze howling across the porch and banging the swing into the wall. Resigned to an uncomfortable few minutes outdoors, she tiptoed to the kitchen and out the back door. She didn’t want to wake up the men. Léon was worse than a granny about her and Sehoy going out after dark.
She found no sign of her cousin on the back side of the house. More curious than frightened, she pulled her cloak tighter about her body and walked around to the front.
“Sehoy!” she hissed. “Where are you?” She walked up the porch steps and sat on the swing, befuddled. Had Sehoy and Oliver made plans to meet somewhere? But why would they do that, when they saw each other plenty during the day? Unless . . . her mind didn’t want to go where it was going. Sehoy was not promiscuous, and Oliver was as innocent as the child she’d once called him.
Well, but if they were being stupid enough to meet in the middle of the night, and they weren’t here on the porch, the only place they could be was the barn. She rose, setting the swing chains to jangling, then stood irresolute. Maybe she should mind her own business. Maybe Sehoy had just returned to the house from the front and Fiona had missed her. Maybe she was already back in the bed.
But it wouldn’t hurt to go to the barn and check on the horses. Washington had been favoring his right fetlock at the end of their session this afternoon. If he was all right, she’d go back to bed and scold Sehoy in the morning.
Cupping her hand to protect the candle flame from the wind, she took off across the yard. The half moon was obscured by scudding clouds, but she made out the looming shape of the barn, where she could hear a horse shuffling in a stall. She recognized Bonnie’s whuffling, but where was Washington? He was usually the more restive of the two.
She began to trot. Sehoy wouldn’t have taken him. She was scared to death of the gentle giant.
Fiona lit a lantern with her candle, then blew the candle out and went straight to Bonnie. The horse stuck her head out over the stall door to nuzzle Fiona’s ear. Smiling, Fiona stroked Bonnie’s cheek. “Hey, you, I don’t have anything to eat this time of night. Where’s your beau?” A glance down the row of stalls told her that Washington was gone.
Just . . . gone.
Stomach suddenly in a knot, she patted Bonnie and walked down to Washington’s stall. She’d put both horses in the barn for the night, because for the last few weeks the nights had been cold. Washington hadn’t kicked down the door; someone had let him out. Truly, she couldn’t imagine Sehoy . . . but maybe Oliver . . . ?
Something made her walk toward the tack room at the other end of the barn. Léon would be angry if he found out she’d been out here talking to Charlie in the middle of the night, but she had little to lose at this point. The lantern threw shadows along the aisle, a mouse scurried into a loose pile of straw. The familiar smells of hay and manure should have been comforting, but something was wrong. Everything was wrong.
The tack room door was shut and bolted, but the padlock was open.
She hit the door with the flat of her hand. “Charlie! Wake up! Has Sehoy been out here?”
She heard a choked “Fiona?” and it did not sound like Charlie.
“Sehoy?” Fumbling, she slid back the bolt and opened the door. Peering in with the lantern held high, she saw Sehoy curled in the straw, arms wrapped about her head. When the light hit her, she turned over to shield her eyes with her hand.
Fiona put her fist to her mouth, stifling a scream. Charlie’s pallet was neatly made, as it had been this morning when she came in with Desi. The wall where his chains had been clamped was ruined, the softened wood gouged and raw, the plate and chains missing.
“Sehoy! Where is Charlie?”
“I’m sorry, Fiona. He tricked me.” Sehoy sat up, scrubbing her hands over her face.
“Who tricked you?” Fiona asked stupidly. “Charlie?”
Sehoy nodded. “Oliver said Charlie wouldn’t eat any dinner, and I felt bad about leaving him to starve, so I waited until everyone was asleep, and I took Oliver’s key. I brought him some cornbread, and . . . When I opened the door, he was standing free. I tried to shut the door, but he just stepped past me and pushed me in and slammed the door and slid the bolt!”
“Oh no! Oh no no no—Sehoy, he’s taken Washington!” Fury and hurt seized her. “How could you let this happen? How are we going to get Sullivan back now?”
Sehoy’s face crumpled. “I don’t know! I told you I’m sorry! But look, he left this for you. I found it on his bed.” She opened her hand to show Fiona the heavy carnelian intaglio ring Charlie had worn on his left index finger.
Fiona took the ring and stared at it, felt its weight and warmth, as if it were a living thing. Part of Charlie himself. She clenched the ring in her fist. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“I suppose it’s payment for the horse.” Sehoy sniffled. “You could sell it.”
“Money won’t get my brother back! How long has he been gone?”
“Not long. I’m not sure what time it was—”
“I’m going after him. Washington was favoring his leg, so maybe Bonnie can catch up to him.” Of course she didn’t want Washington going down, but it could happen.
“But you don’t know where he went!”
“The British are gathering in Pensacola. He would be riding east across Mobile Point, and there’s only one road over. He won’t be familiar with the area, so he’ll have to stop and ask someone . . . Oh, never mind! I’ve got to change clothes and get Bonnie saddled.”
“But, Fiona—”
Ignoring Sehoy, Fiona hurried back to the house. Forcing herself to move quietly in spite of frissons of panic and anger that rolled about under her rib cage, she left her boots on the porch, then tiptoed into the bedroom and dropped her cloak on the bed. She stripped off her robe and nightgown, replaced them with Sullivan’s breeches and shirt, and pattered back to the porch to put her boots back on.
When she got back to the barn, outfit completed with Oliver’s hat and overcoat, she was stunned to find Sehoy leading Bonnie out of the barn, already saddled. As Fiona checked the girth—not quite trusting Sehoy’s ability to properly cinch it—Sehoy stood at Bonnie’s head, silently holding the reins.
“Thank you for doing this,” Fiona said through her teeth. “You didn’t have to.”
“It’s my fault he’s gone. I felt sorry for you and Charlie both, but as much as I despise General Jackson, I love you and your brothers more. I hope you can catch him.”
Fiona noticed Sehoy didn’t mention Oliver. Neither did she ask how Fiona was going to bring a healthy, fully recovered Charlie back to Navy Cove.
Sehoy’s eyes widened when she saw Fiona strap her rifle behind the saddle. “Do you know how to use that?”
“I’ve been hunting with my brothers since I could climb a tree. I’m a better shot than Oliver.”
“You’re not going to shoot Charlie, are you?”
“I hope not.” With that Fiona swung into the saddle and kicked Bonnie into a canter, then a run.
If she’d had time to think about it, she might have been frightened. Riding cross-country before dawn, when she had no idea, really, where her quarry could be . . . crack-brained, is what Léon would call her. In fact, when he discovered what she’d done, she was going to be in even worse trouble than before.
As it was, she operated on pure outrage and instinct. She knew th
e Indian road to Pensacola like the back of her hand. Charlie would get to the neck of Perdido Bay and be forced to either find a ferry across or ride north along the bay until he ran into the Perdido River—which he would still have to cross. Pensacola was a hard two-day ride, even if one knew the route. With Washington going lame, she and Bonnie were going to catch him before he got to Fort Barancas.
She didn’t have a choice.
NOVEMBER 4, 1814
WEST FLORIDA
As the great black stallion pounded the shell road eastward toward Perdido Pass, Charlie exulted in God’s provision. Fiona would probably attribute his escape to the work of the devil himself—and condemn Charlie as one of the adversary’s minions. Funny how he simply felt like a man doing his duty.
Still, if he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the look on Sehoy’s face as he yanked her into the tack room and slammed the door on her.
He’d gotten the chains free from the wall shortly after Oliver came to offer him dinner—which he’d refused, to eliminate any chance of being caught working on his escape. Then over and over, he’d thought through what he was going to do. Lock Sehoy in when she came to bring his breakfast. Take Washington. Leave the ring for Fiona.
He’d known he’d be taking a great chance on one of the men following him on Bonnie and hauling him right back. With the whole family up and about in the morning, Sehoy would be quickly missed. He hadn’t counted on her tender heart prompting her to bring him food in the middle of the night. Fortunately, he’d been ready.
And here he was, trying hard not to think about what might happen to Fiona, Léon, Oliver, and Luc-Antoine when the whole Gulf Coast area, including Louisiana, the Mississippi Territory, and Florida, all returned to British control. Doubtful the Laniers would be allowed to maintain their property holdings, unless they could be convinced to swear fealty to the British Crown.
As if that would happen in a million years.
And even supposing Charlie were allowed to return to beg for Fiona’s hand in marriage, what made him think she would ever consider taking her conqueror to husband? As long shots went, he might as well ask for the moon.
