A Whisper Of Destiny

by Monica Barrie

  “Call the men in. There’re British troops upstairs with Cornwall.” He spun around quickly to face Kira and Francine. “Stay here!” he ordered.

  By the time he was midway up the stairs, Chatham had returned with the five marines to follow Sean.

  Sean reached the upper landing and stopped to listen for any sound. He moved slowly and silently, keeping to the thickly woven carpet. At the door he paused, waiting for the rest of his men.

  Chatham came up behind him and Sean signaled him to the next door. Abraham had forewarned them that all the rooms on this side of the house were interconnected. If Chatham and two others used the passageway, they could bar any escape.

  The marines held their muskets ready, the large barrels pointing directly at the door. Sean took a breath, then crashed against the door, slamming it inward as he rolled across the floor.

  Three of the soldiers let fire their muskets as Sean ducked down. Even before the smoke had lifted Sean began to move. He stepped over the dead bodies of two men and pushed a wounded man aside as he searched about wildly for Cornwall. His sixth sense, which had kept him alive over the years, gave a sharp warning. Sean dropped to the floor, a musket ball narrowly whizzing over his head. He turned, saber held forward, ready for another attack.

  The British soldier who had fired stood in front of a door. As he began to move forward, he threw his musket down, pulling a pistol from his belt. The second door flew open behind Sean, and a shot rang out, striking the defending soldier high on the chest just below the right shoulder. The force of the ball’s impact threw the soldier back against the door.

  Four other British soldiers stood there, dropping their weapons and raising their hands in surrender. Sean went to the soldier who had just been wounded. He lifted his head. The man was still alive.

  “Cornwall?” he asked.

  The soldier shook his head belligerently.

  “It’s over!” said Sean, yanking the man up by his hair, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You’re a soldier. Don’t protect the traitor who ran out on you.”

  The man looked at Sean with pain-filled eyes as he tried to move. “We have a doctor here. He’ll help you,” promised Sean as Chatham knelt down to open the man’s jacket and examine his wound.

  “’e went out this ’ere door,” whispered the soldier. Sean and Chatham gently moved the man. Then Sean pulled the door open to reveal the servant’s steps that led down.

  Chatham was busy tending the wounded Englishman, so Sean called two of the marines who reloaded their weapons and started down the steps. Barely five minutes had passed since Sean had shot the first British officer.

  When Sean reached the first landing, Kira grabbed Francine’s arm and pulled her along the main hall, in the same direction as the men above them. When they passed through a doorway that opened into the library, the sounds from above suddenly grew muted. The women went through the next doorway and stood in a small alcove that separated the library from another room. Kira opened this door and again motioned Francine after her. The light filtering into the library from the main room vanished in the stairwell, and Kira took Francine by the hand to make sure she did not stumble.

  When they reached the bottom, Kira placed Francine’s hand on her shoulder and led her several feet before stepping into another alcove. She pulled Francine close and whispered.

  “If Uncle James gets away, he must pass through here.” As if to accent her words, the sounds of fighting and the heavy echoes of gunfire exploded once again in the lower depths of the house. “Be ready!” warned Kira.

  CHAPTER 33

  The twenty American marines, led by Captain Mathews, worked swiftly. As soon as they saw the slaves manning the active supply lines, the marines charged.

  Mathews ordered four men to fire into the air, and while those four reloaded, four others repeated the firing. He achieved the effect he’d hoped for.

  The slaves from Haven and others that James Cornwall had brought from New Windsor dropped whatever supplies they were passing along the line to either fall to the ground or run toward the woods in order to escape the gunfire. The sailors and overseers who had been supervising the provisioning ran to the ship or into the woods. If caught, these men well knew, they would be hanged as traitors or spies.

  At the same moment, Mathews saw the sloop approach the second ship, which was waiting to be provisioned. He smiled to himself even as he and his men began to board the docked ship. He had been wise to disregard Rouger’s orders in favor of the Commodore’s. The Commodore had not wanted to take any chances with one of the ships escaping. The other ten men he had hidden in the sloop would have their work cut out for them. As soon as the first volley was fired, the second ship had weighed anchor and started off.

  The smaller sloop now blocked its path and fired its forward cannon across the other ship’s bow.

  Mathew’s attention was diverted as he saw effective fire being returned at his men. One marine fell only a few feet from him. Mathews signaled his men to board and charge. He moved forward, assisted by the sharpshooters who had taken protected positions to pick off the enemy. By the time they reached the gangplank, they were having real trouble, but Mathews refused to be deterred by his surprise at the effective opposition. British Navy sailors manned this ship, and they were as well trained as his own men.

  When the marines ran out of ammunition, they attacked those on deck with bayonets. The fighting was fierce. The screams of the wounded and dying echoed against the background of cannon fire from the two ships on the river.

  Mathews never even saw the British cutlass that sliced across his shoulder. He whirled away from the blade, bringing his own saber up. The sailor who had attacked Mathews screamed in shock as the razor-sharp blade cut upward from his groin. The captain ignored the pain in his shoulder and, shouting orders into the fray, continued directing his men.

  He was vaguely aware that the shots from the main house had stopped. As his own men subdued the last of the resistors, Mathews could only guess the results of Sean Rouger’s work.

  After fifteen minutes of fighting, the battle aboard ship was over. The American marines rounded up all the survivors and positioned them against the ship’s railing while Mathews checked on his wounded. Ignoring the arm hanging limply at his side, he caught sight of several figures running between the main house and the rice fields.

  Kira’s hand tightened on Francine’s arm, the only signal she would permit herself to give in the dark and deadly silence. Barely a second passed when the faint light of a candle penetrated the blackness. Francine lifted her arm, her pistol ready to fire, as the light grew stronger. When a shadowy figure appeared, Francine stretched out her arm and raised the other hand to steady the heavy gun.

  “Wait!” whispered Kira, as she heard the footsteps. The figure drew closer and then stopped. Francine, seeing the figure emerge eerily out of the dark, did not bother to think, but instead let her reflexes take over. She fired her weapon and was rewarded with a startled cry as the candle flew from the victim’s hand, and he went crashing to the floor. Francine started to move forward, when Kira roughly pulled her back. Another light had just appeared from around a corner.

  Kira leaped forward, rapier extended, as the face and heavy body of James Cornwall emerged from the shadows.

  “Stop, Uncle!” commanded Kira in a steely voice. Cornwall’s eyes bulged as he recognized her.

  “No!” he screamed. “You’re dead! You’re dead!” His face turned into a distorted mask of terror and hatred.

  “Even were I dead, Uncle, I would return to haunt you!” she declared as she moved forward again.

  Suddenly, Cornwall extended his pistol; just before he fired, Kira felt a sharp push from behind and found herself flying forward, to land in a heap on the dusty floor. Another body fell heavily on top of her. She heard Cornwall running, the echoes of his steps ringing hollowly in her ears, as he escaped.

  “No!” she screamed defiantly, throwing off Francine’s protect
ive form and ignoring the pains that shot through her back and abdomen. She staggered to her feet and—even in the dark—was able to find her way swiftly. Moments later, she emerged from the exit that led to the outside kitchen. She paused, fighting to catch her breath and to see which direction Cornwall had taken.

  Her green eyes narrowed as she scanned the darkness. When she saw a shadow move from behind a tree, she knew he was going to try for the woods behind the rice fields. She clutched her rapier so tightly her fingers were becoming numb. With a determined grimace, she cast off the small stabs of pain she still felt in her back and started after James Cornwall.

  She ran directly across the grass, giving no thought to cover or safety. She saw only one thing—her uncle’s escape—and she would go to any length to prevent it. He stopped halfway between the dock and the fields and bent to pick something up before taking off again. So intent was Kira on his pursuit that she did not hear the shots from shipboard nor the irregular booming of the ship’s cannons. The voices that called to her from the house, only scant seconds behind her, went unheard. Not even Sean’s shouting penetrated her mind.

  Only the murky figure of the man she hated most in the world kept her attention. Kira’s feet flew unerringly over the familiar ground that she knew so well. She moved swiftly and surely on her errand of vengeance.

  She was faster than her uncle and gained quickly, ignoring the pains that sent shooting, stabbing, burning streaks of fire deep into her abdomen. Her lungs screamed for air and Kira bit down hard on her lip to prevent herself from crying out. The salty taste of her own blood made her gag and made her stomach churn.

  The silhouette of her uncle was not twenty feet distant. He was skirting the first rice pond and almost into the woods. Kira forgot her pain—she forgot everything but her mission. The taste of her blood disappeared as she tried to cut across the edge of the pond. She slipped on the wet mud but quickly pulled herself up and ran on.

  “Stop!” she commanded, when she was within ten feet of the man. Cornwall froze, his back to her. Kira lifted the rapier as she closed on her uncle.

  Cornwall whirled and charged her. In his hands was a musket, and on its tip was the long, dull, blackened metal of a military bayonet. His face was a horror, as hate, rage and the terror of seeing a ghost distorted it inhumanly. Kira sidestepped the charge, using the hard, thin blade of the rapier for defense. Luckily, she was able to deflect the bayonet before her uncle had put his full weight behind it.

  Her rapier stung her hands and fingers as it vibrated from the contact with the heavy weapon. A slow smile of victory spread on Cornwall’s lips.

  “You may have survived England, but you’ll die now!” He came at her again. Kira knew her rapier would not withstand another attack, but prepared herself anyway. Shifting her legs, lifting up on the balls of her feet, she moved her body from side to side as she tried to present a difficult target.

  He ran at her and Kira threw herself sideways, pushing her blade toward his huge form. She felt the tip hit something and pulled it back quickly. Cornwall stopped, staring in horror at his arm and the trickle of blood flowing from it.

  Now he was truly determined to kill her. This time the corpulent man did not rush but moved steadily forward. He jabbed the bayonet at her; he began laughing because each time he jabbed, the rapier was easily pushed aside. Then Kira felt a tree against her back. She had nowhere to go.

  “Cornwall!” screamed another voice, and Sean emerged from the dark, not five feet from them. Kira momentarily lost her concentration and Cornwall took advantage of this. The bayonet reached toward her, but Kira recovered in time to deflect it with the rapier.

  Cornwall, ready for the move, struck the thin blade hard, letting the hard metal of his gun slide along the rapier’s length until it hit the hand guard. Then he pushed the musket downward and let the bayonet’s tip hit the guard and rip it from Kira’s hand, harshly twisting her wrist as he did so. The rapier fell to the ground. Then he grabbed Kira, pulling her in front of him as a shield.

  “Hold!” he ordered Sean, gripping Kira’s neck. He had her pinned effectively to his chest, choking her with his large forearm.

  “It is you, Rouger, isn’t it?”

  Sean stood still, his saber held at his side while he awaited Cornwall’s next move.

  “How astute,” Sean mocked. He was playing a desperate game, one that risked all, but it gave him the only chance he had. He had to gamble on his knowledge of Cornwall.

  Sean took another step forward, only to see Cornwall’s arm tighten around Kira’s neck. Fear for Kira stabbed at him, but he willed it away. He must do it this way, or Kira would certainly die.

  “Just like the last time we met,” Sean ventured. “You’re so much like your son, Cornwall. You use or abuse women to protect yourself. To satisfy yourself!” Sean smiled wickedly at the obscenity that faced him, taunting Cornwall with his voice. “It was easy, killing your son. He was a baby, and so used to hitting women and thinking how important and strong he was. It was a pleasure to rid the world of him!”

  “No!” screamed Cornwall in a hideous wail as he shook his head in jerky movements. Sean saw the flecks of spittle as they flew from the corners of his fat lips.

  “Your British Colonel was easy, too. He died before you went five feet.”

  “Stop!” ordered Cornwall. “Stop or I’ll kill her!” he shouted, pulling Kira upward by her neck.

  Sean froze again as he watched Kira’s feet dangle an inch above the ground. But he had to keep talking. “Is that what you want? I thought you wanted to be royalty—to do as you wish, like a great lord!” Sean’s voice was harsh. He had to distract Cornwall from Kira, and he had to make it clear to her that her opportunity for escape was near. Kira had recovered slightly and Sean suddenly saw her hand moving toward the top of her skirt. The knife! Quickly, he began to talk again.

  “How were you going to take over the country, Cornwall?” he taunted. “By killing everyone who disagreed with you? By making slaves of anyone who was left?”

  “The people want us back under English rule!” Cornwall snarled back.

  “Which people? Your cronies, perhaps, not the real people.”

  “The people who count!” Cornwall snapped. “Even Burr! I am to be his lieutenant!” Sean froze at the mention of the well-known name.

  “Aaron Burr?” he asked, shocked.

  “Who else—” The cut-off word was followed by a scream as Kira’s knife entered the fatty flesh of Cornwall’s side. He flung Kira away from him to the ground and Sean leaped for her, his feet flying forward. But he was stopped only inches away from Cornwall who had somehow managed to hold onto the musket.

  Even with Kira’s small knife quivering in his side, Cornwall held the point of the bayonet only inches above Kira’s stomach. Kira lay beneath him, still as death.

  “One more step, scum, and she dies!”

  “No, you’ll die,” said a female voice behind them. Francine appeared at Sean’s side, pistol in hand, its barrel pointing at Cornwall’s chest.

  “I still have my own score to settle. Your son tried to kill me!” she said stiffly.

  “Would you have her die?” asked Cornwall, as he nudged Kira’s abdomen with the bayonet’s tip.

  “If she must,” Francine said in a flat voice. She took another step forward. “Better than leaving you alive. Kira wants you dead.”

  Cornwall looked at her again, drawn by the deadly strength of her words. The bayonet began to waver slightly in his hands. He stared at her, then at Sean. “Nothing matters anymore.” He shook his head and laughed. “My wife is insane, my son dead, my life destroyed. She’s the only one left.”

  Looking down at Kira, he slowly lifted the weapon. Its blade was still pointed at her stomach. Kira appeared unconscious; she had not moved since Cornwall had thrown her to the ground, and Sean realized she’d hit her head on a long, thick root that crawled out from one of the giant oaks.

  As the crazed man laughed, the
point of the bayonet began to descend.

  “Shoot him!” Sean ordered his sister. Francine didn’t move. Her eyes were locked to the bayonet’s tip, watching in horrified fascination as the blade moved threateningly. She shook her head, freeing herself from the awful vision before her, and lifted the pistol again.

  “No!” yelled Cornwall again, paralyzing Francine’s hand as if she were in thrall.

  Then, in the quiet of the night, a loud report shattered the air. As the sound died, blood began to pour from James Cornwall’s forehead. Sean reacted instinctively, and he jumped across the small space that separated him from the wounded man.

  Cornwall stood stock-still, an expression of incredulity on his face. He still had not dropped the musket with its deadly tipped bayonet. It was poised only inches from Kira. Sean flew headfirst at the man, his arm extended, pushing the musket away.

  Cornwell fell as another emerged from behind a tree. The tall, lanky black man held his weapon loosely at his side. Francine turned to him with a cry of relief.

  “Thank God, Abraham! Thank God!” She dropped her pistol and ran to Kira.

  Sean was already kneeling beside Kira, and he brushed the damp red hair off her forehead. She was breathing raggedly as he slipped his arms under her, preparing to lift her.

  “No,” said Francine urgently, as she came over to put a restraining hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Wait for Robert.”

  “Why?” he asked, puzzled. “She’s not injured, just shaken.”

  “Sean,” said Francine, her voice a barely audible whisper even in the silence of the night. “She’s with child.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Kira woke the next morning in her old bedroom at Haven. When she opened her eyes, she found Sean sitting on the chair next to her bed, and as soon as he realized she was awake, he bent forward and kissed her. Then he took her hand gently in his.