Ride the Fire (39 page)

And then it came to him. He knew what he had to do. Whether it would work, he had no idea. But he knew he had to try.

Nicholas pulled Bethie closer, looked out the window and waited for dawn.

It wasn’t until he reached for his pistols that she awoke fully. Then the events of the night before came flooding back to her, and she remembered.

She sat up, not aroused now, but afraid. “Nicholas?

“But you’re English! You heard what Malcolm said at the cabin. They hate the English!”

He checked the pistols, ran the cleaning rod down their barrels. “I have lived on the frontier among them. I fought beside them at Fort Pitt. I think they’ll listen to me.”

She stepped from the bed, went to him, heedless of her nakedness. “And if they put a ball through your skull instead?”

He tucked the pistols in the waistband of his breeches, turned toward her, rested his hands on her shoulders. “They won’t.”

“And how can you be sure?”

He pulled her against him, held her. “I can’t, love. But neither can I sit here and do nothing—not when innocent people will surely die.”

Her fear grew and became anger. “You once told me that war and slaughter are nothing new, that the only person a man can save is himself, that survival is the only rule that matters!”

He stepped back from her, tilted her chin upward. There was an almost sad smile on his face. “You’re the one who showed me how foolish that philosophy was, Bethie. Don’t ask me to forget that lesson.”

Then she knew she could not stop him. Tears pricked her eyes. “Why must it always be you? Why must you be the one to ride out and speak with them?”

“This time is different. At Fort Pitt, I went out because I was the best at killing, at surviving. But this time, I have a chance to do something far better. I have the chance to
save
lives, to stop the killing before it starts. I can’t let that chance pass by.” He kissed her, one gentle, slow kiss, then stepped away from her. “I need to go, love.”

“Then let me come with you! These are my people, my neighbors! Surely they will listen to me, to both of us!”

“Absolutely not! These men are armed and angry. I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

“But I can help! I know I can! If it’s safe enough for you—”

“No!” He seemed genuinely angry now. “Do not defy me on this. Stay here with Belle. My father and Jamie will look after you.”

Tears of fear and fury spilled over, ran down her cheeks.

“Damn you, Nicholas Kenleigh! You’d best come back to me alive!”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “Of course, love. I don’t want to miss my own wedding.”

Then he seemed to hesitate. He took his pistols, considered them for a moment, laid them down on the table. He spoke as if to himself. “No more killing.” And then he turned, walked out the door and was gone. For a moment, Bethie stared after him, too shocked to move. He was unarmed. He was on his way to confront an angry mob, and he was unarmed.

“That haggis-headed—!” She threw on her shift and dressing gown, dashed down the hallway, knocked frantically on a door. After a moment Jamie answered, wearing nothing but a bed sheet, which he’d tied haphazardly around his hips. “Bethie? What’s the matter?” He let her inside, shut the door behind her.

“Jamie, who is it?” Alec emerged from an adjacent room, clad in a black velvet dressing gown.

Fighting panic, she told them of Nicholas’s plan, of her fear that he would be hurt, perhaps even killed. “He is unarmed! We must do somethin’ to help him!”

Jamie and Alec exchanged glances, then Alec opened the door, wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Thank you for warning us, Bethie. Go back to your room. You’ll be safe there until we return. We’ll take care of Nicholas. I promise.” She looked up into Alec’s eyes, so like his son’s.

“I couldna bear it if aught were to happen to him!”

“Nor could we.”

“Cold. Damp. Dreary. The perfect morning for a ride, wouldn’t you say, Alec?”

“I’ve seen better, but this will do.”

Nicholas snorted in disgust, turned on them. “Where in hell do you two think you’re going?”

Jamie entered a stall farther down, began to saddle his stallion. “We were about to ask you the same question.”

And then Nicholas understood. “Bethie. She woke you.”

His father pulled his saddle from the wall, walked to his mount. “And it’s a damned good thing she did.”

Nicholas led Zeus to the stable door, mounted. “You’re not coming with me. Stay here, and watch over her for me. Let me do this alone.”

Then he kicked in his heels, urging Zeus forward at a canter.

Behind him, Jamie led his horse from its stall, waited for Alec. “Not this time, Nicholas. Not this time.”

The air was cold with the crisp bite of autumn, the sky overcast and gray, the trees arrayed in shades of red and orange. She kept just off the road, using the skills Nicholas had taught her when they’d fled to Fort Pitt. She didn’t want him to spot her, didn’t want him to send her back. She was so tired of standing helplessly by while he risked his life, so tired of waiting to know whether he was dead or alive, so tired of doing nothing. These were her countrymen, her people. If he could not convince them to lay down their weapons, perhaps she could.

Nicholas had given up arguing with Jamie and his father by the time they’d reached the opposite side of the river and had turned to planning their strategy.

Jamie sounded insulted by his plan. “So you want us to stand there and say nothing.”

“Why is that?” His father frowned.

“The moment you open your mouth, Father, our cause is lost. These people are not fond of Englishmen.”

“Oh, that again,” Jamie muttered.

“You might not realize it, but your Oxford accents make you sound more English than bloody King George.” Jamie chuckled.

“We
are
more English than bloody King George.”

“Now that you mention it, son, I will say that your speech has become, shall we say, more colorful?”

Nicholas was about to offer a witty retort when he heard—or perhaps felt—many hooves beating the ground. “They’re just ahead.”

Jamie nodded, all jesting aside. “I feel it, too.” They rode in silence until the front line of riders came into view.

Nicholas dismounted, stood in the middle of the road, one hand on Zeus’s reins, the other at his side. “Don’t draw your weapons unless you absolutely must.” His father and Jamie dismounted and stood behind him, their pistols primed and loaded.

The horsemen drew near, riding at a gallop. Already Nicholas could see individual faces. A man toward the center of the mob motioned for them to clear the road. Zeus jerked on the reins, his animal instincts apparently telling him to make way for the horde that was bearing down upon them, but Nicholas stood firm.

On the road ahead of them, the riders slowed their mounts, then reined them to a walk.

“You’re blockin’ the road, friend.”

“I’ve come to talk, to stop you from throwing your lives away.”

“That’s the problem. The garrison is already under arms, and the good citizens of Philadelphia have dusted off their muskets.” Nicholas smiled at the irony of Quakers rushing to arm themselves, heard men laugh as word of what he’d said was passed through their ranks.

The man dismounted. He wore a buckskin coat and breeches, and his face was as weathered and brown as the leather on his back. “Who the bleedin’ hell are you?”

“The name is Nicholas Kenleigh. I came to Philadelphia from the siege of Fort Pitt, where I fought against the Delaware and Shawnee, and I’ve come out here of my own accord to ask you not to do this.”

A whisper passed like a breeze through the throng. “My name’s Matthew Smith. You’ve got balls of granite, Kenleigh. But we’ve come for the Indians, no’ for the wee Quakers and their pretty wives.”

The crowd of frontiersmen burst into laughter, their horses shifting restlessly beneath them.

“The garrison will not release them to you. You know that. If you try to take them, there will be a battle.”

“Those savages are allies of the ones who killed our families, our women and children! The Quakers would not protect us from slaughter, but when the Indians ask for protection from us, our blood still on their hands, the good people of Philadelphia take them to their bosom! Tis an outrage!”

The horde erupted into angry shouting.

When it died down, a man began to chant a verse. “Go on, good Christians, never spare, to give your Indians clothes to wear. Send them good beef and pork and bread, guns, powder, flints and store of lead, to shoot your neighbor in the head!” Cheers.

More angry shouts.

Nicholas understood their fury. He would not try to explain the Indian point of view, for he knew for certain none of these men wanted to hear that they were considered invaders in someone else’s homeland. From the frontiersman’s point of view, the west was open for the taking. Scratch your mark in the tree bark, and the land was yours. That the war had left thousands of Indian families without land and starving mattered little to settlers.

“The Indians at the fort are Christianized and were nowhere near the frontier this summer.”

“If they are truly Christian, why did they no’ warn us of this uprisin’ before it happened? Why did they share information and supplies wi’ those who butchered us? And why now do they hide here, disguised as friends? I’ll tell you—they come here to be given stores of food through the winter so they can come back and scalp us in the spring!” Bellows of outrage. Calls for bloodshed.

“We want justice!”

Nicholas felt the mood of the frontiersmen shift against him, felt their anger and hatred build. The line of horsemen pushed forward, driven by restless fury. More pistols and rifles were drawn. The stench of bloodlust permeated the air. But almost as quickly as they arose, the shouts faded to silence, and Nicholas realized the men were staring past him. He looked over his shoulder, thought he would explode.
Bethie.
She rode one of the mares, her hair unbound and hanging freely over her new cloak. She had disobeyed him again, had followed them—alone.

Jamie looked at him, doubt in his eyes. “She may be of help, Nicholas. She’s one of them.”

Then Nicholas took the linsey-woolsey of his shirt in his hands, tore it down the middle, exposed his scarred body. The crowd fell into hushed whispers.

“I burned in the fires of the Wyandot. I know about living and dying and surviving. And I know about killing. If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed a hundred. And what you want isn’t justice—it’s vengeance!”

From deep in the crowd came a shout. “What’s wrong with vengeance?”

Shouts of agreement, curses.

Bethie waited until it was silent again, raised her voice. “I know you are angry. But more killin’ cannae bring back those you have lost. Is this what your loved ones would want—for you to endanger the lives of innocent people?” For a moment there was silence as the men seemed to ponder this.

Their leader, the man who stood before Nicholas, spoke up. “Only those who oppose us need fear harm. We’ve not come to fight the people of Philadelphia, though they showed no mercy for us when we were being cut down!” More shouts of agreement.

“You are brave men and strong, and I see you’re no’ afraid to fight. But you cannae overcome the entire city. If you march into Philadelphia today, you’re goin’ to die. Your blood will be spilled for nothin’! Is that what your wives and children would want?”

Silence stretched, heavy and pregnant, beneath the weight of the gray sky.

Bethie looked into Nicholas’s eyes, saw that his anger had softened.

Their leader’s gaze shifted from Bethie back to Nicholas.

“What would you have us do, Kenleigh?”

“Choose men to represent you and present your grievances to the city fathers for redress. The rest of the men should go home to their families.”

“That might work for a man like you, an Englishman wi’ powerful friends.” The man nodded toward Jamie and Alec. “But who are we to trust?”

Nicholas’s father answered, his voice strong, unwavering. “Benjamin Franklin. I assure you he will listen to you, treat fairly with you.”

The men in the crowd seemed to consider this. Bethie felt the tide begin to turn. “I have met him! He’s a good man, and an honest one.”

“And how do we know he’ll be willin’ to meet wi’ us?”

Alec answered. “I give you my word. I am Alec Kenleigh, Nicholas’s father. I am a member of the Virginia House of Burgesses and have the honor of calling Franklin my friend.”

Someone snorted. “Why should we believe an Englishman?”

Jamie raised his voice. “England is far from here, friend, and we are all colonists. What you suffer, if left unchecked, will come to our doorsteps soon enough. Besides, there will be plenty of time for killing later—if we’re lying.”