Spirited (4 page)

Did I hear something?

It could have been a man’s shout echoing off a mountain. Or the cry of an eagle, or the roar of a wild animal.

Or it could have been the crashing of the breathtaking waterfall they were approaching. From perhaps fifty feet above the treetops, the falls cascaded into a wide stream that meandered beside their path.

Still, Isabella’s attention had been caught; her senses were on alert. She glanced around to see if anyone else had heard anything unusual. Judging by her father’s steady expression, he had not. Major Whyte, too, continued to ride ahead, and gave no sign that he found anything amiss.

She settled back in her saddle, wishing again that she could find a way to loosen her corset. She found herself envying the Indian women, who did not wear them. Of course, their men treated them like slaves. Or chattel—they even traded them for horses.

I
would sooner die than live like an Indian squaw.

There it was again.

“Isabella…”

It is my name!

Lips parting, she narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. The sound had been very soft, a whisper on the wind, maybe even a memory stirring in her mind.

It came again:
“Isabella…”

She gasped. A glance at her unconcerned father told her that, clearly, he had not heard it.

Is my mind too starved for air? Am I hearing things?

She pressed against her chest and bowed slightly inward to give her lungs a chance to expand. The lace of her collar tickled her under the chin; otherwise, her efforts bore no results. Her father raised a brow and she dropped her hand away in mild frustration.

“Isabella,”
came the whisper again. Only it wasn’t
Isabella
precisely. It was something close, something similar…

“Mahwah…”

“Yes?” she whispered very softly, in a tone so low she herself didn’t hear it.

As soon as the word came out of her mouth, a sudden darkness blotted the sky.

“What the devil?” her father blurted as he pulled his horse up short.

A murmur rose among the men. The sky grew darker still, covering the 35th like a black net. Gray sank from the sky toward the earth. The colors drained away from the leaves and the bright British uniforms. Her gloves were a dull, flat color, as if she had plunged them into a muddy river.

“A storm is coming,” Dr. Stevens said quickly to her. “That’s all, my dear.”

Isabella’s mount chuffed anxiously. A chill rushed up her spine and she gathered the reins as she would pull a blanket up to her chin in her bed when she was cold or uneasy.

All her life, she had had a terrible fear of storms.

Coming abreast of her and her father, Major Whyte frowned up at the shadowed sky and said to Dr. Stevens, “It’s going to rain, sir. I suggest we seek shelter. I can have the men pitch tents.”

“Is that safe?” Isabella asked, aware that by questioning him in front of his men, she was being quite rude. “I … that is, you had suggested we must be quickly through these woods.”

“I did,” he retorted, knitting his brows, clearly vexed. “I am thinking of your comfort, Miss Stevens.” He gestured to his troops. “If we were all men here, I would insist we ride through the storm. But you are a young lady, and I must take that into account. And as you are not a stranger to these Colonies, you may know that the weather can be quite severe.”

“I can manage quite well,” she assured him, unwilling to be an inconvenience.

But a terrible sense of foreboding gripped her that went beyond her childish fear. The more she considered it, the more certain she was that something had called her name. And now something very bad was about to happen. She could sense it in every part of her being.

“Forgive me, sir.” Her gaze matched his in steadiness. “I do not mean to dispute your decision. But
I … something is
wrong.
I thought I heard a … voice. Did you not?”

“A voice?” he echoed, and she nodded.

“Very quiet. Like a … whisper.” She was at a loss how to explain it to him.

“No, miss, I did not,” he replied. “But that may only mean that my hearing is less well-turned than yours,” he added politely.

“I heard no voice,” her father added, his tone low and uneasy. “What did it say, Isabella?”

“I thought… I thought I heard my own name, Papa,” she answered.

His eyes narrowed, and she wondered if he was recalling the night her mother died. There had been a storm that night, too. The wind howled like an Irish banshee, promising death. Tree branches flogged the green wood shutters; thunder shook the rafters.

In a panic Isabella had suddenly leaped out of bed and rushed barefoot to her mother’s rooms. She had been the one to discover the cold body of Emily Stevens.

After the funeral, her father had asked, “How did you know to go to her?”

“Indeed, I did not know,” she had replied, weeping, a glass of sherry between her ice-cold palms. “Else I should have been there in time to save her.”

Eventually her father dropped the matter. She had no explanation for it, and it sat between them
now and then, of a night when they were both lonely, she supposed.

“Where did the sound come from?” Major Whyte asked her now, in the forest. A wind was rising, and with it, her anxiety.

She flushed. “I—I’m not certain. I’m sorry—”

“Sir, we must be prepared,” Major Whyte said to Dr. Stevens.

“Agreed,” her father murmured.

Moving as one, the two British officers drew their pistols. They would have one shot each. Isabella wished she had a pistol; but then, she had no idea how to use one.

These men are here for my protection
, she reminded herself as the phalanx of soldiers shifted about in the gloom. She could feel the tension growing among the ranks.
They are trained for it.

Shadows crawled down the trees and spread across the earth. It was nearly as dark as night.

Major Whyte said to the men, “Look alive. Alert me if you see any movement in the brush.”

“And ’ow we going to do that, when it’s black as tar?” one of the soldiers muttered beneath his breath. Though she could barely see it now she knew his hair was an impossible scarlet, and there were freckles across his nose. “It’s not natural, this. There’s a hex on this place. We ought to run for our lives.”

“Silence, Ben Schoten,” Major Whyte said with deadly stillness. “I give the orders here.”

The soldier shifted his weight. “Sir, this be witchcraft.” He glanced in Isabella’s direction. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but we’ve a female with us, and—”

“That is enough!” The major raised his voice. “One more word and I’ll have you flogged here and now, instead of later!”

Major Whyte leaned forward in his saddle like a wolf about to leap onto its prey. Schoten flinched as if he had been struck. Officers held tremendous power over their subordinates, and Major Whyte could be merciless if he chose to. Isabella knew discipline was strict in the Army, and Schoten had certainly been trained not to question his superiors.

But Schoten was right. Something was clearly amiss. In less than a minute, the forest had been plunged into impenetrable gloom. At this rate, they wouldn’t be able to see their own hands in the time it took to speak of it.

Whyte’s horse whinnied anxiously and stamped his forelegs. He reined him in and patted his neck, far more sympathetic to his unease than he had been to Ben Schoten’s.

“Dr. Stevens, please, sir,” he said, “I want you to take Miss Stevens and—”

A huge shape crashed from the nearest thicket of pine and chestnut trees, followed by a loud bellow. The roar ripped through the forest; several of the soldiers shouted in terror. Isabella tried to follow the attacker with her gaze. It was enormous.

It was happening so fast. As she blinked, the
shadow fell upon the men; one of them shrieked as it charged him, swiping at him, knocking him down and trampling him.

Isabella screamed.

“Indians!” someone shouted.

“It’s a bear!” Ben Schoten screamed.

“Present arms! Fire at will!” Major Whyte commanded his men as he took aim. His horse reared just as his firearm discharged. The shape let out another roar and lurched into the mass of soldiers, who were scattering as it advanced.

“Damme,” Major Whyte gritted his teeth.

Then Dr. Stevens shot his pistol. He missed as well.

“Dr. Stevens, sir, follow me!” the major bellowed.

Major Whyte reached across Isabella and grabbed her reins from her hands. He put his heels to his own horse and galloped with her off the path, herding her horse toward the waterfall, in the opposite direction of their attacker. In the descending darkness, the white crests of crashing water at the base of the falls glowed a strange white. Droplets pelted her face and hair. She realized she had dropped her hat; she realized, also, that she was on the verge of fainting.

Isabella tried to look over her shoulder, but the lace of her collar obscured her view. She tried to catch her breath and could not; her heart was pounding feverishly, and the world was growing dim.

Her father drew up beside her and Major Whyte.
The major handed her reins to him and wheeled back around, returning to the wild scene behind them.

Men were screaming. Flintlocks erupted, sending a ricochet of percussion through the chestnuts and birches. The shape growled.

There was more screaming among the troops. Isabella’s horse threw back its head, whinnying hysterically. Muskets flared in the dying light. The crack of their shots echoed in Isabella’s bones.

“Oh, my God,” her father said. He grabbed her shoulder. “Don’t look.”

“What is happening?” she cried, half-turning in her saddle. The dark world spun. “Papa,” she began. “I can’t breathe….”

“Don’t look,” he ordered her again. Then he grabbed her and pulled her against his chest. “Don’t, poppet,” he said, which was a name he used to call her when she was little.

She tilted back her head and studied his face, which was rapidly disappearing as the forest grew darker. His jaw was clenched; his mouth was pursed and grim.

Behind them, more shrieking pierced her ears. More firing. The bear roared like a demon.

Ben Schoten was right
, she thought.
We should have run away.

From his position about thirty lengths from the waterfall, Wusamequin’s heart soared as he witnessed the carnage unfolding in the dark forest below.

British soldiers!
Though it was difficult to see, there was no mistaking the red uniforms of the Yangees. His spirit guide had led him to them, and darkened their vision so that he could destroy as many of them as possible. With ferocity and courage, Great Bear fought among them, keeping them busy and thinning their numbers to give Wusamequin time to gather his warriors. As Wusamequin watched, Great Bear felled two of the Yangees with a powerful sweep of his arm, slamming them to the ground as if they were fat trout.

Uttering a single war cry, Wusamequin turned around and raced back the way he had come. His chest rose and fell; sweat beaded his forehead. His legs pumped. Like any good adult male, he could run all day if he had to; it was nothing to cover the distance between the forest path and the village.

He only prayed he could do so fast enough for the braves to kill all the English before any got away. He had seen only one man on horseback, while the others marched on foot. He couldn’t make the assumption, however, that he had seen the entire party.

“Thank you, Great Bear,” he whispered.

Today, on the exact day his family had been killed thirteen moons before, he would finally have his vengeance.

He screamed his war cry as he ran, calling the braves to arms. By the time he reached the first wigwam, the braves had begun to assemble. The war chief, Sasious, was there, pulling his leather
shirt over his breechcloth and leggings. His coup feathers fluttered in the wind. Wusamequin’s friend chubby Keshkecho was there, his tomahawk in his right fist.

Their tribal leader, the great Sachem Oneko, strode toward Wusamequin as the medicine man raced to the center of the cluster of men. Heavily muscled, the first frost of winter in his hair, black brows arching over his eyes, he raised his hand and said, “Wusamequin, why do you sound your war cry?”

“British soldiers!” Wusamequin announced excitedly. “Not far from here! My spirit guide, Great Bear, is attacking them for me!”

There was a stir among the men. Excited smiles broke out. The dark eyes of his cousins gleamed with anticipation and eagerness. Then the women hurried up, having left their cook pots and wigwams. Some carried babies. Word was passed: Wusamequin’s honor was about to be restored. Dogs yipped at the excitement and a baby began to yowl.

“Wusamequin!” A brave named Tashtassuck hurried toward the medicine man and clapped him on the shoulder. Few dared to touch the shaman in such a familiar way. “My heart soars at this news!”

Oneko smiled broadly. “The very day,” he said, for of course he had remembered. He kept track of all the important events in the lives of his people. “Surely the spirits have delivered your enemies to you.” He gestured to the men. “Go with your brother and help
him fight his battle. Bring back many scalps to honor his good fortune. Wet your tomahawks in the blood of the Yangees!”

Now Odina stepped from among the women. She was carefully dressed in a deerskin dress with beaded, fringed sleeves. Her hair was arranged in two braids and adorned with feathers. Her dark eyes glistened with tears. “My heart soars for you, Wusamequin,” she said huskily. “These deaths will heal your heart.”

He didn’t acknowledge her words. She was a woman, and this was man’s business. Besides that, he didn’t want her to think that his healed heart would be open to her. The death of his wife was a wound that would never heal.

“Great Sachem,” he said to Oneko, “I have an obligation toward the welfare of the People of the River. I must warn you that if we fight the Yangees, there’ll be blood shed by our men as well. The Yangees are well armed.”

“Our men are brave and strong,” Oneko replied, smiling encouragingly at the men, who were already telling their wives to fetch their weapons. “It’ll be an honor for them to fight beside you.”