Before the Scarlet Dawn (23 page)

“And we have our herb garden and chickens.”

“The corn seed has sprouted in the garden along with the cabbages. Let us pray the Lord gives us enough rain this season.”

Fiona took Darcy’s hand and headed on. Eliza watched them walk together with the sunshine falling over their bonnets and alighting on the path. They were her responsibility, and she would not see them starve, not as long as she had breath in her body.

Upon the kitchen table sat a bowl of bright yellow apples, the last from a bountiful autumn crop kept in the cold cellar. Setting Darcy in the ladder-back chair at the table, Eliza chose one and polished it against her apron, Darcy watching her all the while with shiny brown eyes. Against the oak cutting board, she sliced the apple into thin wedges ribboned with the golden skin. Then she gathered the pieces into her hands and arranged them on a pewter plate for her daughter.

Fiona stepped out the door, humming, the egg basket in her arm. A moment passed quietly, and the breeze blew through the open window, fluttered the muslin curtains, and trembled the wildflowers in the jar beneath it. Eliza jumped when Fiona shrieked and bounded back inside, her face white as the mob-cap she wore.

“There’s a snake in the coop,” Fiona cried. “I saw him in one of the nests when I opened the door. He’s eating the eggs. And the poor hens for fear of him are roosting in the rafters.”

Without hesitation, Eliza lifted the loaded musket from where it hung from two pegs on the wall above the hearth. “Stay with Darcy, Fiona. If I do not get him, he will eat all the eggs and then the chicks.”

When she stepped inside the darkened coop, where shards of dusty sunlight poured through the cracks, she looked to see the hens perched together, staring down at her as they murmured and clucked. Her rooster paced out in the yard making a ruckus and puffing out his feathers. Eliza scrutinized the nests and backed away upon sight of the snake’s sleek body slipping over the edge of the box and down to the straw-laden floor. The head she could not see, but she frowned at the sight of the egg-shaped bulge. A shiver rushed through her limbs, as her hands gripped the long rifle. She raised it to her shoulder and cocked the hammer. But before she could fire, the serpent wound its way through a crack in the boards and slipped out.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” She hoisted her skirts to her knees with one hand and hurried to the back of the coop, where the snake wound its way between clumps of grass. She raised the rifle again, sucked in her breath, and took aim. Squeezing the trigger, the musket cracked. Smoke blinded her view, and she stumbled back. Fanning it away, she stepped cautiously forward and looked to see if she had gotten the dreadful intruder. Indeed she had, for the snake’s flesh was torn open—red and motionless against the grass.

She smiled. Hayward would be so proud of me. Then her breath caught in her throat at the cry of a jay. And when a flock of sparrows sprang from the edge of the forest, a cold sweat prickled over her skin. Hayward had taught her the signs, and she made Fiona swear to hide with Darcy at the first hint of danger.

If only she had brought the powder and shot with her. She could reload and defend herself as she fled to the house. She saw an Indian glide between the trees. Fear swept over her from limb to limb. He carried a tomahawk decorated with turkey feathers, and the black mask of the wolf covered his eyes.

“Help us, God.” Slowly she backed up, then turned and ran, hoping the Indian had not seen her. Fiona stood at the window. Eliza could not call out. The brave would hear her. She fixed her eyes on Fiona and made a motion with her hand for her to move back. “Indians! Hide. Hide,” she mouthed the words, and saw Fiona’s eyes widen. Did she understand?

The toe of Eliza’s boot caught a stone, and she fell forward. She sobbed and through the strands of hair that crossed her eyes, she looked up to see Fiona gone. Thank you, God. Protect my daughter and servant.

Her legs scrambled and her hands pushed against the earth in her effort to get to her feet. But a pair of calloused fingers dug into her neck and hauled her up. She twisted against her attacker, kicking and clawing until the cold blade of his knife met her throat. All atremble, her legs weak and giving way, she surrendered to the power that held her.

23

T
error raked through Eliza. She shut her eyes tight. The blade grazed her skin, and she felt a hot trickle of blood run down her throat. I am going to die . . .

Slowly the blade lifted away. The arm that held her relaxed and tossed her forward. When she opened her eyes, she met those of an Indian so fierce and dark that she thought her heart had stopped beating. He stared into her eyes, with hate at first, which changed to bewilderment, then pleasure as he scanned her face. Waves of nausea rose in Eliza’s stomach. Her head swam, and her brimming eyes looked away, overtaken by fear.

“Please . . .” The word struggled in her throat as a whisper. “I am a mother . . . Please.”

His black eyes flickered a moment. “Mother? Where your child?” he said in broken English.

Instantly, Eliza wished she had not spoken. “She is not here. I am alone.”

The Indian’s jaw shifted, and she knew he did not believe her. “Come, and your child will live.”

Knowing she had no other choice, Eliza held out her arms when he tore a thrum from his deerskin leggings. Another Indian bounded from the woods and approached. How many more lurked inside the cover of the trees, she feared to know. Her wrists were bound, and she was guarded while the leader went inside the house. Eliza could only imagine the fear that must be gripping Fiona and Darcy. Tears streamed from her eyes. If they were found, the horrors of what could be done to them were too much to imagine. Her weeping turned to sobbing.

God, do not let her whimper or cry. Please keep her silent. Do not let him find them.

When River Run was built, a crawl space large enough to hold four adults had been dug out beneath the kitchen, near the large stone hearth. The rest of the house had a cellar beneath it, which could be easily searched. A trapdoor, marked with a notch, could be lifted up, then set back into place. Here, Fiona lowered Darcy, then herself, into the musty darkness. At the edge of the opening she had set a kitchen knife, and she grabbed it and drew the trapdoor back into place.

“ ’Tis a game, sweet girl,” Fiona whispered. “You mustn’t make a sound. Be as quiet as a mouse. The cat is above, and we cannot let him catch us.”

Darcy’s trusting brown eyes looked at Fiona as the child held her doll close. Fiona caressed her curls and gathered her gently into her arms. Footsteps above caused her to hold in her breath. With her heart heavy in her chest, she stared at the planks above. Dusty light seeped through threadlike cracks, then vanished when the Indian stepped over them. Her hands grew slick with sweat and she trembled. She prayed. She pleaded.

Eliza. Oh, poor Eliza!

The sounds lessened, and soon were no more. The Indian had stepped away, and a minute later she heard a yelp come from outside that made her blood run cold.

Fiona waited and listened. Minutes turned into an hour, and Darcy fell to sleep in the cradle of Fiona’s arm, her breathing quiet as an angel’s, all of which Fiona thanked God for. With great caution, she set the child back, and leaned up to draw the trapdoor open. It scraped across the grooves, and she crawled out. With the knife poised in her hand, she stepped out and crept into the hall and peered into the rooms. The kitchen had been ransacked—and no doubt other rooms were as well—and her best copper kettle and carving knife were gone. Fiona narrowed her eyes and frowned.

She had to think clearly, to gather her courage for Darcy’s sake. Returning to the hiding place, she lifted Darcy out. With Darcy in her arms, she peered out the window toward the coop. Eliza was nowhere to be seen. Fiona stifled the hard lump that grew in her throat and the tears that fell from her eyes. “Dear Lord, they have taken her. What should I do?”

She sighed with relief that the Indian had gone. But her heart ached that he had taken her girl captive. Would it be too dangerous to saddle Eliza’s horse and go for help? It was a risk Fiona had to take. She could not remain where she was and do nothing at all.

Her gentle, motherly hands slipped Darcy’s shoes on and tied the ribbon beneath her hat. “Now remember to be quiet, little one. The cat may still be about.”

“What kind of cat?” Darcy whispered.

“I have not seen him, but he is fierce. We will go to the barn and saddle Nell, then take a nice ride to Mr. Halston’s house. He is our closest neighbor and will come and chase the cat away. All right?”

Darcy nodded. “Where is Mama?”

“She is in the forest waiting for Mr. Halston to come and help her.”

She picked Darcy up and slipped cautiously out the back door. When she reached the barn, she slipped inside and thanked the Almighty the Indians had not taken Eliza’s mare. They would not have to walk to Mr. Halston’s. But the milking cow had been carried off.

The Indians led Eliza into the forest. This time when she passed between shadow and light it seemed all darkness, and all the beauty she admired had wilted in the summer heat. Eliza was pulled along by her captors, her thoughts ran rampant. Would they defile her, kill her? Would she become one of their slaves or the wife of the one who led her? She trusted that Fiona would go for help. Reverend Hopewell. Halston. Tom, his blacksmith—she believed they all would search for her. And God would not delay in bringing Hayward back to her. Surely he would find her, fight for her, rescue her.

Not far from River Run they came to a clearing beside a little stream that flowed down from a large outcropping of shale jutting out of the hillside. The Indian who had admired her grabbed her wrists, brought her to the stream, and pushed her down. She moved her bound hands forward and dipped them into the water, gathered some into her palm, and then brought it to her lips. She remained there, on her knees, bent forward over her thighs, with no sense of the stones and sticks beneath her. The burn of tears welled in her eyes, and large drops fell into the dark ribbon of water below her, where she could see her face reflected.

The Indian reached down and gathered her hair into his fist. She felt his hand tighten against her scalp and tried to rise. All at once, the birds of the forest ceased their chatter. A tense moment followed, and the Indian released her, swinging her around to meet him. She could not meet his stare. His eyes caused her to fear, and she tried to turn away.

Suddenly a musket fired from within the trees. The Indian made a guttural sound and fell. At first sight of the blood spreading across his chest and the lifeless eyes staring up at her, Eliza scrambled away. The other Indian rushed at her with his tomahawk raised, then yelped when a bullet plunged into his throat. Blood gushed from his mouth, his eyes widened, and he stumbled back to join his leader on the ground.

Through columns of dusty sunlight, Eliza saw Halston step forward carrying his musket. Tom, his blacksmith, hurried beside him with a long rifle. When Halston reached her, he drew his knife and cut loose her bindings. Then he reloaded his musket, grasped her hand and hurried with her through the trees. Eliza’s gown caught on a branch, and she stopped to yank it free. A whimpering sound arrested them both, and Halston moved her beside Tom.

He brought his musket forward. “Come out of there.”