Angel's Flight

by Juliet Waldron

There was another long pause, filled by the sounds of the forest night. The Schoharie, passing over its clean gravel bed, tinkled.

  “I keep thinking about the woman I killed.” Jack spoke into the darkness.

  “The warrior woman who killed two.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes, the injured one died after you left. She was as brave as any man. A good shot.”

  When Jack didn’t speak, Born in Fire went on. “There is no shame in killing a worthy adversary. You should’ve taken her scalp and not let the Green Coat steal it. It had strong medicine. Even if she was a woman.”

  “Yes,” Jack agreed at last, “but this felt like killing...well, like killing my own kin.”

  “Her hair was like yours.”

  “And like yours,” Jack softly suggested.

  “Yes,” Born in Fire answered slowly. “It is very strange. I have dreams sometimes, but they vanish like mist over water. ”

  Jack leaned back in the darkness against Hal’s warm brown side. He made as if to sleep again, but he’d be on his guard for the rest of the night.

  ***

  They moved along the creek, passing farm after burnt out farm. It was a dreary sight to Jack, weighing him down more than anything seen in all his years of soldiering.

  Jack did possess an imagination, but he had never indulged it while fighting. As a matter of fact, he put a lot of effort into keeping it under control.

  Now, no matter what he did, the memory of the young, fair woman lying there in her man’s jacket and pants, pursued him like an avenging f F ury. Her cloudy, gray eyes, accusing, met him at the gate of sleep.

  Silent, blackened farms, the swollen, bird-blanketed bodies of animals, the raw, new graves hastily dug, appeared again and again. In each place, Jack saw Angelica. He imagined her, eyes drained, with a terrible, empty stare at the insensible sky.

  Born in Fire was ever more taciturn, even by Iroquois standards. Something gnawed at him, too. At times he seemed almost blind, blundering as he walked, making as much noise as any raw European recruit. Jack was too involved in his own thoughts to worry much about his companion.

  It was late afternoon when they came upon yet another clearing full of burned-out buildings. Untended crops were in fierce competition with weeds. The stream ran slow and wide, glinting in the shallows over small, yellow pebbles.

  There were dead cattle in the pasture—at least, Jack guessed that was what those high ribs had once been. In the family burying ground, on the nearest stone, Jack saw an inscription carved in Dutch.

  Born 1728. Died 1771. Philip Ten Eyck, beloved husband and father.

  Walking back to the gurgling creek, Jack discovered Born in Fire kneeling at the base of an enormous black willow. As he drew closer, he saw the man’s powerful shoulders shaking.

  At the sound of Jack’s approach, Born in Fire turned. Jack saw that he was doing something a warrior never, ever did.

  Born in Fire was weeping, silent tears coursing down his scarred face. He extended his hands and showed Jack a bedraggled cornhusk doll with yarn braids and a neatly sewn calico shift, something he must have found abandoned along the creek.

  “I remember,” Born in Fire sobbed. He spoke, not in Mohawk, but in Dutch. “I remember!”

  ***

  Jack sat on a rock above the stream, cross-legged, staring up into the darkening sky. Below him, Born in Fire continued to hug the doll and weep.

  He would clean and cook the rabbits he’d caught, and offer some to his companion, if the poor fellow could find the stomach to eat.

  It seemed Born in Fire had found what he was looking for. Jack knew his own quest had yet to find an ending. He would leave as soon as he’d eaten and strike out fast—due east.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Even damped down by the rain, smoke filled Angelica’s nostrils for days. The smell of burned houses and barns blew from every direction. Some of it was the property of patriots; some, the retaliated-upon property of loyalists.

  Understandably, no one slept well. Rest was frequently interrupted, either by her own nightmares or someone else’s. Night sentry duty kept the men hollow-eyed.

  One morning, a lathered horse pounded into the yard. A moment later, boots crashed on the porch, then the door crashed open, to reveal a buckskin-clad backwoodsman.

  “Redcoats comin’ up your road!” he bellowed. “Patriots! Run fer yer lives! They’re right on my heels!”

  The children shrieked. Annie M’Gregor speedily herded them together and hushed them. The guns by the door were taken up by Charlie and Kip but, as the rider had warned, the redcoats were even now thundering in.

  Two visitors, Nick and Fred Vanderlyn, who’d been in the parlor with Arent, could be seen dashing across the backyard, fast as rabbits escaping a meadow blaze. The brothers were young and brave, but Fred was a member of the rebel state legislature, and risked hanging if he got caught. An instant later, the two of them had disappeared into the tall corn.

  Arent came from the parlor, rifle in hand. “We’ll have to see if we can talk our way out. There are too many of them for anything else.”

  Angelica, refusing to cower inside the house, accompanied her cousin onto the steps. What she saw there was at least as bad as any nightmare. Behind the riders—perhaps twenty-five men—a red-coated column could be seen, quick stepping along the road.

  “Henry Hudson!” Arent burst out. “It’s an entire damned company!”

  It didn’t take long for the marchers to encircle the house. Beside the redcoats, Angelica saw neighbors, men she had known all her life, now bearing arms on the opposing side.

  With a thrill of terror, she watched as the business end of rifles trained upon her. Quickly, Charlie M’Kinlay and the lanky bondsman, Kip, stepped to flank the TenBroeck cousins.

  “I wish to speak with Mr. TenBroeck,” George Armistead shouted. His long, lean body swung down from the same elegant black horse she’d seen in Tarrytown.

  Angelica, thunder struck, watched as her old enemy marched up those steps she had so recently scrubbed. Four burly soldiers came right behind him.

  “Good day, Mr. TenBroeck,” he said saluting Arent. “I am Major Armistead, of His Britannic Majesty’s cavalry.”

  Arent responded with a slight inclination of his head.

  “And good day to you as well, Mrs. Church. Major Campbell, who holds the camp at the Clove, sends his respects.” Armistead swept Angelica a low, mocking bow.

  “Sir, a day which brings you to my home cannot possibly be good,” Angelica rejoined. She tightened her grip upon her shawl, drawing it close over her bosom.

  “Nevertheless, I am here.” His gaze shifted briefly to Arent, whose arm had protectively encircled Angelica’s waist.

  “What do you want with us, Major Armistead?” Arent asked.

  Angelica could feel those dark eyes return to her and saw the major’s pitted cheeks brighten to a triumphant red. With a quick gesture, he jabbed a finger at Arent’s chest and barked, “Arrest that man!”

  “No,” Angelica cried, but Arent thrust her behind him. Charlie and Kip stepped forward as well, weapons raised, and put themselves between the redcoats and Angelica.

  “What are your charges, sir?” Arent demanded as the soldiers hesitated.

  “This is a war, sir,” Armistead replied. “We do what we like with rebels.”

  A jostling roar of agreement rose from the Tory militia. “Old man TenBroeck is a member of the rebel congress,” someone shouted.

  “If you want my father, you’re making war upon the dead, sir,” Arent retorted.

  “Traitor!” cried another. “Everyone knows you TenBroecks supply Schuyler’s insurgents in Albany.”

  “Major, you could string up every man jack of ‘em that stand on that porch and do King George a favor.”

  “Indeed?” Armistead turned to the Tory chorus with a satisfied grin.

  civilians. “My uncle has taken pity on you ten times in the last ten years and not had your
lazy backside thrown off that farm! And you, Adoniah Griggs!” She pointed to the other. “Just last year, Uncle Jacob loaned you a cow when yours died and your children and wife were sick.”

  Griggs looked abashed, but Jackson went on staring at her defiantly. “Little charities hardly wipe away your family’s treason,” Armistead said. “But enough chat,” he continued briskly, returning his attention to Arent. “Do you surrender quietly, or do my men simply shoot you, and fire this house?”

  “You aren’t offering much of a choice.”

  “You don’t have a choice, as I see it. Surrender or everyone dies.”

  “Major, there are three men standing here, which means no matter what the final outcome, there will be at least three less Tories to see sunset. One of them could very easily be you.”

  “Brave words, sir, but foolhardy,” Armistead replied, scowling. “Enough of this palaver!” Jackson shouted. “Let’s finish the job! Shoot the bastard and fire his house!”

  Armistead lifted a hand to silence the commentary.

  “If I surrender my home to you without a fight,” Arent said, “will you give me your word as a gentleman to insure the safety of the women and children here?”

  Gentleman? The scoff was almost spoken, but Angelica’s fear for those around her choked it off.

  “Make him take an oath to the king and parliament!” Griggs nervously suggested.

  “I will take an oath to King George, but never to those rascals in parliament,” Arent loudly countered.

  Armistead glowered at Arent for a moment, and then, as if allowing compassion to get the better of him, broke into one of his oily smiles.

  “Why not?” he said. “Here and now I give you my word, sir. We are both gentlemen after all. And,” he added, turning a cheerful grin upon Angelica, “there is certainly no reason to injure those who will soon be kinsmen.”

  This was too much for Angelica. She pushed past the wiry form of Charlie and slipped her arm into Arent’s. Startled, her cousin attempted to maneuver her behind him again, but Angelica held fast.

  “You are too late, major,” she said, hating the quiver in her voice. “As you have said, I am Mrs. John Church.”

  Armistead politely touched the brim of his tricorn. “Of course. So you were. How tragic! A marriage barely celebrated before it was over.” His fierce, small eyes gleamed.

  “What?” As frightened as she was, Angelica let the word go.

  Ignoring Angelica, Armistead directed his response to Arent. “Let’s go into your parlor, if you please, Mr. TenBroeck. We have important matters to discuss.”

  ***

  “Those Indian allies of ours sometimes get confused about which side they’re on.”

  Angelica and Arent stood side by side in the parlor. The major faced them, hat in hand, like a visitor. He had somehow restrained himself from taking a seat at the desk, but Angelica was all too familiar with his expression. Armistead was drawing this out, enjoying their fear and uncertainty, enjoying the knowledge they were at his mercy.

  Charlie and Kip had been taken into custody. Harriet and Charlie’s wife, Lettice, were busy in the kitchen, serving the family dinner to the officers. Mrs. de Keys and Widow M’Gregor were upstairs again with the five children. The view through every window was depressingly full of redcoats.

  “Scalps are often more important to Indians than sides,” Arent warily agreed. “But what does that have to do with us?”

  Malice danced in Armistead’s eyes. “It has more to do with the lady than with yourself, sir. Although, as the head of the family, you do need to be acquainted with all the facts,” he added lazily.

  Angelica felt her eyes blazing. “Come to the point, will you, sir?” she snapped. The tension of this game was unbearable.

  “The point is that your knight in shining armor is out of the game,” Armistead retorted, tossing his hat suddenly onto a chair. “For good.”

  “What?” she whispered. All the blood went, in a rush, from her cheeks. The room wavered.

  “Mr. Church went into the forest,” the major said, no longer bothering to hide his pleasure. “But he won’t be coming out. The Indians in his patrol got carried away. After one bloody encounter with the rebels, they killed some of our men, too.”

  “And how would you know?” Arent asked.

  Angelica was a thousand times grateful to him. For the moment, she was speechless.

  “Oh, I have sources. Colonel Butler, for instance.”

  “So you don’t really know anything,” Angelica cried. It took all her courage, faced with his brutal, confident grin.

  “Angelica, my dear, prepare yourself. I know this will be hard for you.” Armistead paused, slipped one hand in a leisurely fashion into the breast of his jacket. “A week past, I received this and a letter detailing the—the accident.”

  He withdrew his hand, and there it was, a scalp lock, flowing and thick, of a luxurious, ashy blonde.

  “No!” Angelica stepped back in horror.

  Armistead set it gently down on the table and laid a letter with military seals beside it. “I am afraid so, Mrs. Church. If you would care to read this, it will explain the unhappy circumstance by which you became a widow.”

  Angelica stared at the scalp, at the beautiful hair, still so shiny, resting upon the dark, polished wood of the table. She thought she might faint, as if her head had just received the same blow that had, a few weeks ago, taken that fair hair.

  She had believed she’d shed every tear it was possible to cry since she’d made the decision to banish Jack from her heart on that terrible night they’d killed her Uncle Jacob. Now she could feel a river of sorrow, flooding down her cheeks.

  “You are a widow, Angelica,” Armistead said in a voice queerly tender. “And here I am, just like before.”

  Arent’s arms slipped around her. Angelica buried her face against his burly shoulder and sobbed.

  “This is not well done, sir,” Arent growled. “I can see you have no familiarity with compassion.”

  “You’d better hope I do,” Armistead replied levelly. “What has happened to Colonel Church is a fact, and there is nothing to be gained by concealing it. Besides, you and I have things to talk about which require your complete understanding of the situation.”

  “Allow my cousin to withdraw, then.”

  “As you wish, Mr. TenBroeck.”

  “No! Arent!” Angelica cried. “I will not be left out of any discussion which concerns me!”

  “Perhaps you’ve heard,” Armistead rambled on conversationally, “that there isn’t a rebel house standing west of—what is it? An odd Dutch name. Ah, yes! Schenectady! The only thing between our great Generals Burgoyne and Saint Leger is that gouty fool, Philip Schuyler.”

  “General Burgoyne is said to be looking forward to moving into that nice, big house Schuyler has in Albany. I’ve heard the old man lives like a prince.”

  Angelica thought of the Schuyler mansion—The Pastures, it was called. She thought of her friends, the three Schuyler girls, especially dark-haired, sensible Betsy about whom Aunt Laetitia had been so dismissive. She imagined fire shooting from the upstairs windows, smoke and screams filling the great room in which they’d danced...

  Darkness came rushing. Thick arms enclosed her as she swayed. Against her cheek, Arent whispered, “I can take care of this, dear cousin.”

  ***

  An arm around her waist, Arent escorted Angelica past the guards and up the dark narrow stairs into her bedroom.

  “Sit. Try to collect yourself. I’ll find out exactly what he wants,” he whispered. “And don’t you worry. I believe I’d shoot you before I’d give you over to him.”

  “I would prefer a bullet in the brain any day to that monster,” Angelica replied. “And, if this gets worse, I may beg for one.”

  “Hush! Hush! We’re going to get out of this. Don’t ask me how, but we’re going to.” He squeezed her fingers encouragingly between his big, blunt hands. “Right now, we’ve g
ot to play for time and hope something changes. Something which turns the tide our way—like the Kingston militia.”

  Angelica nodded, but she didn’t say anything. Her mind struggled with the image of the thing Armistead had tossed onto the parlor table.

  “Courage,” her cousin murmured, a single word reminding of Jack. Then, as more tears spilled, and a bitter taste rose in her throat, Arent turned. A moment later, the bedroom door clicked closed.

  The neat, small room revolved. Angelica leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, hoping this would stop it. She was incredibly weak and glad to be seated, to be separated, if only by yards, from George Armistead.

  Deeper and deeper into the nightmare! If Jack is dead, she thought desperately, what does anything matter?

  She stumbled to the trunk. Lifting the lid, she dragged out the unfinished quilt from beneath the top blanket where she’d abandoned it. Hugging the bright colors in a lump against her bosom and shaking like a leaf, she dragged herself to the bed and lay down.

  Bluebirds upon their nest!

  How many times had she fondly dreamed that this center was a prophecy of a lifetime of happiness?

  She had allowed herself to dream of peace and love, of waking beside him every morning.

  Now it seemed as if she stood alone on an icy shore, shipwrecked, half-drowned, and farther from the home of which she’d dreamed than ever before.

  ***

  “A very fine house you have here, Mr. TenBroeck. I think I shall enjoy my stay.”

  “It is fortunate the Tories who paid our barn a visit a few weeks back left the house standing.”

  “Fortunate indeed.” Seated comfortably in the wing chair, Armistead turned his attention to the side table where a selection of glasses and full bottles sat on a silver tray. Turning over two conical glasses, he filled them with whiskey.

  “You don’t mind, do you, sir?” he asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “Please, Mr. TenBroeck,” Armistead said. “Do join me.” He nodded his white wigged head at the matching chair standing on the opposing side of the table.