He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her lips.
“Let’s get started,” he said.
The last time Charlotte had climbed this hill, she and her parents were bringing Isaac home. Mama, her face streaked with tears, had gone first, holding branches out of Papa’s way. Papa had carried Isaac’s body across his shoulders. Charlotte remembered the brightness of Isaac’s coat and the darkness of his blood, and the way his arm had stuck out stiffly toward her, as if reaching to take her hand.
Tonight it was Nick holding back branches for Charlotte as they climbed. Their boots sent pebbles clattering down the steep slope. How could tiny stones make such a racket? Surely someone would hear!
It was a steep climb, and by the time they reached the top, Charlotte was out of breath. She set down the spade and leaned against the trunk of the great sycamore tree where Nick had carved their initials long ago.
“Listen!” Nick whispered. “Do you hear anything?”
“Only frogs down by the creek.”
“I thought I heard rustling in the grass.”
“Just a mouse or a vole.”
Charlotte’s heart was pounding. When Nick put one arm around her and pulled her close, she felt his heart thumping too. Maybe he was more nervous than he wanted to admit. She noticed that he had not put down his rifle.
Nick lowered his mouth to her ear.
“Look here.”
She turned her head. Dimly visible on the sycamore’s pale bark was the heart with their initials. The carving was raised like a scar. “N.S. loves C. H.” She traced the letters with her fingers.
He kissed her cheek, and then took his arm from around her waist.
“You lead the way,” he said. She nodded and picked up the spade.
The path from the edge of the ravine to the Hoopers’ farm was not as clear as it had been two years ago. It seemed rough and narrow. Perhaps no one used it now. If there had not been a full moon, she might have lost her way.
Ahead of her, the grey wood of the snake fence had a silvery sheen in the moonlight. The fence had not changed: three cedar rails, the top one waist high.
When they reached the fence, they lowered themselves to their hands and knees to peer between the rails. The rock pile was forty feet away. Charlotte pointed to it.
“There,” she whispered.
He handed her his rifle and climbed over the fence. When he reached the other side, she passed him his rifle and the spade, and then climbed over to join him.
They headed for the rock pile in a crouching run. After reaching it, they stayed low, listening for danger. All they heard was their own breathing and the sighing of the wind.
Charlotte cautiously raised her head and looked over the top of the rock pile. She saw that weeds and grasses were taking over the back acre where Papa had grown potatoes. That was a relief; it meant that no plough had so far disturbed the earth.
Across the field, near the far corner of the pasture, lay a couple of dozen white mounds. Sheep, not cows. Their cropping would wreck the pasture. But why should she care?
Beyond the pasture was the apple orchard. It was blossom time, filling the air with sweet perfume. Looking between the rows of trees, Charlotte had a clear view all the way to the house. It had not changed.
Every window was dark except one. Near the back of the house, the kitchen window glowed faintly, a dusky rose rectangle divided into tiny squares.
“They’ve banked the fire,” she whispered. “I don’t see any candles lit. I think they’ve gone to bed.”
They. How many? And who were these people that cooked their food in the Hoopers’ fireplace and slept in their beds? A married couple? A family with children? She supposed that she would never know.
Nick stepped from behind the rock pile. He touched the head of the spade to the ground.
“Here?”
She nodded. The spade bit into the earth with a scratchy sound. A few times she heard the grating of metal scraping stone. Then a clang rang out. Charlotte’s heart stood still. “You hit the tea set. Come back.”
Nick returned to cover. They crouched side by side, waiting to see whether the noise had raised an alarm. But all remained quiet.
“I’ll dig it out,” Charlotte said. She crept over to the hole. Working carefully with her fingernails and the knife, she unearthed the tea set piece by piece. The canvas in which it had been wrapped was rotted away. She lifted the tray, the creamer, the sugar bowl and the teapot and shook off the earth. There was a dent in the teapot. Nick’s spade must have done that. Charlotte sheathed her knife, put everything into the sack and lugged it behind the rock pile.
Nick returned to the digging, quickly tossing spadefuls of earth from the deepening hole. Apart from his breathing and the rasp of the spade, all was quiet.
Suddenly a second clang rang out as loud as a schoolyard bell. Charlotte held her breath. This time Nick stayed where he was. He laid the spade on the ground, knelt down, and began to dig with his knife and hands. All was quiet again, except for the scratching sounds of Nick scrabbling in the earth. He grunted while lifting the strongbox from the hole and stooped as he carried it behind the rock pile.
“What’s it filled with? Rocks?”
“Our family Bible.”
“It must weigh fifty pounds.”
Charlotte held the second sack open for him to slip it in. She took a deep breath. The worst was over.
Then a dog barked.
Slowly Charlotte stuck her head around the side of the rock pile. Looking towards the house, she saw a man’s shape appear at the kitchen window. His bulk blocked half the light. She would never forget those big sloping shoulders and bull neck. A chill ran up her spine.
“Look who it is.” She grabbed Nick’s arm.
“Ben Warren! Oh, God! I was afraid of that.”
The dog kept on barking — the deep woof, woof of a large dog. Warren stepped away from the window. A minute passed. Nothing happened.
“Maybe he’ll go back to bed,” Charlotte whispered.
“I don’t think so.”
The pink glow of the window flared as bright as sunrise.
“He’s built up the fire,” Nick said.
The door opened. Warren came out, a long rifle cradled against his shoulder.
“What’s the trouble? Them damn wolves again?” His voice carried clearly — a harsh voice, too high-pitched for a man. “Well, Scout, let’s have a look.”
Scout was a farm dog, black and white — a sheep dog mixed with some larger breed. It trotted ahead, glancing back every few steps to make sure that its master followed, straight through the orchard and up to the fence that Papa had built to keep pasturing cattle from getting at the apples.
Warren stopped at the fence, but the dog squeezed under the bottom rail and took a few steps towards the rock pile. When it saw that Warren was not following, it whined and turned back. It jumped up on the fence, placing its front paws on the top rail.
Go back! Charlotte silently urged. Warren hesitated. Obviously he had no wish to go further. But the dog insisted. It barked again. Woof. Woof. Woof.
“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “Show me what it is.” And he climbed over the fence.
Straight ahead of him, across the open pasture and the untended field, was the rock pile. To Warren’s left, a couple of hundred feet away, the sheep lay on the grass. Warren, his rifle held ready, turned left.
Good. If the sheep were all he cared about, he would go back to the house as soon as he saw that the flock was safe.
But the dog would not let him approach the sheep. It ran back and forth, whimpering.
“What’s got into you, Scout? Are you afraid to meet a wolf?” Warren kept on walking.
The dog grew frantic. It ran circles around its master, herding him away from the sheep and towards the rock pile. Warren stopped and looked about. Three or four sheep stood up. They bleated peevishly, as if annoyed but not afraid.
“Scout, I don’t know what you’re trying
to tell me, but I hope there ain’t no savages behind that rock pile.”
Charlotte held her breath.
Warren looked at the rock pile, then toward the house. He looked at the rock pile again. If he feared marauding Indians, common sense should send him back. The dog, still barking, made quick, short runs, returning each time to its master, determined that he should investigate.
“Oh, all right,” Warren said.
Charlotte ducked for cover. Turning to Nick, she saw that he held the spade gripped in both hands.
“Where’s your rifle?” she hissed.
“By the hole. I can’t get to it.”
The dog growled. Warren’s footsteps were drawing near. Charlotte picked up a stone. Nick shifted his stance, planted one foot firmly, and prepared to spring.
The dog charged. It came around the side of the rock pile, snarling with bared teeth. Charlotte hurled the stone. She missed. The dog’s jaws closed upon her ankle, and she felt its teeth bite to the bone.
There was a crack of sound and a puff of flame and smoke. At the same instant a shattering blow hit the rock pile, sending a chip of stone whizzing by Charlotte’s head. The dog let go.
Until he reloaded, Warren could not fire again. Nick’s chance was now. He launched himself at Warren, swinging the spade like a battle-axe. Warren threw up his rifle barrel to fend off the spade. Sparks flashed. Metal rang against metal. Nick spun around, swung the spade again with his whole weight behind it. This time Charlotte heard a thud, and then a grunt.
Ben Warren dropped his rifle. As he sank to his knees, he reached out both hands as if trying to grab something, and then fell upon his face. Charlotte saw the shine of fresh blood on the side of his head.
Barking frantically, the dog ran to its master. It crouched beside him, licked his hand, and whimpered.
In the glowing rectangle of the kitchen window, another man appeared. Behind him, other figures moved about. The room was crowded with men. Half a dozen at least.
“Nick! Look!”
He did not hear her. He stood motionless, leaning heavily on the spade.
“I killed him,” Nick mumbled. “See what I have done.” He seemed unable to move.
When she grabbed his arms, she felt how slack his muscles were. Charlotte snatched the spade from his hands and threw it to the ground.
“Forget about Warren! Get the strongbox. Hurry!”
Charlotte slung the sack holding the tea set over one shoulder and raced toward the snake fence. When she reached it, she glanced back. Nick was right behind her. He was carrying his rifle, nothing else, and he looked dazed.
“Where’s the strongbox?”
“Still back there.”
“Then get it!”
Charlotte dropped her sack over the fence. Shouts came from the house; dogs barked. Between the house and the barn, scurrying figures rushed in no particular direction. Nick seemed to wake up. He looked over his shoulder. There was still time.
“I’ll get it,” he said. “See you at the canoe. Hurry. Go!”
Charlotte scrambled over the fence. When she had reached the other side, she looked back. Nick was running toward her with the strongbox clutched to his chest. He was halfway to the fence.
By the rock pile, Ben Warren was sitting up, one hand clapped to his head. So he wasn’t dead. Did Nick know that? She’d tell him later.
Charlotte hoisted her sack and ran.
The sack bumped against her back. The silver clashed and clanged. Behind her, a man’s voice shouted, “Fire! Fire! Fire!” She stopped and turned around. The sky over the farm was filled with flaring light. For a moment Charlotte stood still, unable to move. Flames rose high above the trees in the orchard, and the smoke glowed rosy gold.
She choked back a sob and started running again, plunging blindly ahead. Her breath came in panting gasps, her heart thudded against her ribs, and her knees felt weak with fear.
Something tripped her. She stumbled, scrambled to her feet, kept on running. She felt the pain of a stitch in her side but dared not stop to ease it. With every step, the sack banged and bumped against her back. Maybe she should drop it. But she must not lose the tea set.
Where was she now? This was not the path. She looked back over her shoulder. The sky was aglow, but Nick was nowhere in sight. The edge of the ravine must be close, but she could not see it. Bushes shadowed everything.
Brambles caught at her clothes, scratched her face. She stumbled again, recovered her balance. When she put her foot forward for the next step, it met empty air.
Charlotte fell. Clutching desperately at bushes, roots — anything to stop her fall — she grabbed a handful of twigs that broke off in her hands. Like a stone in a rock fall, her body skidded, bounced, and rolled. She dropped the sack. The clanging of the hollow silver was the last thing she heard. When the noise stopped, everything stopped.
Chapter twenty-one
Charlotte lay very still. Her body felt numb, dull and heavy, and she was utterly tired. She knew that she must get back to the canoe, but had no desire to move. Her head ached. Her right ankle hurt. That must be from the dog bite. When she tried to sit up, she felt dizzy, and a burning pain shot through her left shoulder. Charlotte lay down again.
She was lying at the foot of a birch tree halfway down the hill. The tree must have stopped her fall. Inches from Charlotte’s face, a green caterpillar climbed the white bark. Overhead, sunlight splattered on green leaves that shifted dizzily. So now it was day. How long had she lain here? Last thing she knew, it had been night. The farmhouse had been burning. Men had been shouting, dogs barking, shadows rushing back and forth.
At least I’m alive, she thought, and nobody is chasing me. Even if I can’t return to the canoe on my own, Nick will find me. As soon as it’s safe, he’ll search for me, unless… .
Unless! Oh, dear God! She wasn’t going to think about that. Surely Nick had escaped. Those men and dogs would be no match for him. He had said that he would lead them on a false chase if anything went wrong, and obviously that’s what he did. At this very moment he was back at the canoe, with the strongbox, waiting. Or maybe he was already searching for her. Keep calm, she told herself.
Nick was sure to find her. The sack holding the tea set must have landed nearby. When he found her, he would recover it too. And she was lucky to have fallen into this place that was completely hidden. If she had not fallen when she did, she might have been captured. Who knows what would have happened to her then? Did the Sons of Liberty hang girls? But she was not visibly a girl. Would that make a difference?
What if they discovered that she was a girl? She shuddered at the memory of Ben Warren’s hands upon her body, his stinking breath in her face.
So Warren and his friends were the squatters. They had turned the Hoopers’ home into a nest of Liberty men. Last year, when Papa had said he would rather his house burned to the ground than have Rebels take it over, she had not shared his feelings. But now she did. Those men, all rushing into the yard, should have had more sense than to leave a roaring fire untended.
She was glad that the fire had cheated the Sons of Liberty of their spoils. It showed that there was some justice even in this topsy-turvy world. As for Ben Warren, he did not deserve to live. But for Nick’s sake she was glad he had not died. Let Heaven be Warren’s judge. His fate was in God’s hands.
And so was her fate. Helpless as a baby, she certainly lacked the strength to save herself.
From where she lay, she could hear the murmur of the creek a hundred feet below, its cool water rushing over the little brown pebbles. Suddenly she realized how thirsty she was. If she could drag herself to the creek, she could put her face into the water and lap like a dog. And if she could get as far as the creek, she might be able to follow it downstream to the canoe.
But her pain was growing worse. At the slightest movement, her shoulder felt as if it were being speared with a red-hot poker. Her ankle had swollen to double its normal size. Charlotte stared up at the
birch leaves dancing in the sunshine. I reckon I’m not going anywhere, she thought.
As she lay thinking about this, the skin at the back of her neck began to prickle. She heard no one, saw no one, yet some instinct warned that she was being watched.
Slowly she slid her hand towards the sheath on her belt. Her knife was her only weapon — not much use to her when she was flat on her back. But she had to try.
Before she could grip the handle, her arm was seized and wrenched back. She turned her head to see a pair of black eyes looking straight into hers. A warrior gripped her arm with one hand while his other hand deftly drew her knife from its sheath. His cheeks were painted with yellow stripes like lightning bolts, and his scalp lock rose in a bristling crest with trailing feathers.
Charlotte fixed her eyes on his, determined to show no fear. Don’t plead, she told herself. Be defiant. Whatever you do, don’t cry. One sign of cowardice, and he’ll take your scalp.
The warrior let go of her arm. Raising his head, he gave a call that sounded like the warble of a bird. A few minutes passed. Then two other warriors came gliding from the underbrush. Both were dressed like him, in buckskin leggings, loincloth and moccasins. Their faces were also painted with yellow lightning bolts, and they wore trophy feathers in their scalp locks.
The three warriors inspected her ankle and then spoke to each other in a language that sounded a lot like Mohawk. The man who had taken her knife lifted her in his arms. At the movement, her shoulder felt as if it were being struck with an axe. She moaned. The pain was so terrible that she welcomed the blackness that swept over her, blotting out all feeling and all fear.
She awoke to find herself in a twilight world, drifting between sleep and waking. Somehow, she was high in that birch tree on the slope of the ravine, rocking gently in the topmost branches. But it might have been a canoe. She smelled river mud and heard the sound of lapping water.
When the mists cleared at last from her mind, she was lying on her back in a bark-covered hut that had a sappy smell like new wood. The inner side of the bark slabs was pale yellow, and the poles that formed the frame of the hut looked freshly peeled.
The Way Lies North Page 20
