Sword of Vengeance (11 page)

The brawler dripped with sweat as he hauled his latest conquest out of the ring. He noticed the girl watching him. He was surprised to find such a small one among the crowd. He wrinkled his features and snarled to startle her, but Esther held her ground, reassured by the presence of her uncle behind her.

“What do you think of that, missy?” the Titan said with a wink.

“I think you’re a stupid blowhard, just like my uncle said,” she said quite sweetly.

Kit, who had been about to scoop her up into his arms and take her away from the crowd, froze, his arms outstretched. For a moment he considered pretending he didn’t know the tousle-headed child. But his actions had already branded him as her relative.

“Blowhard, is it?” The Trenton Titan straightened up. Then his lips curled back to reveal a row of broken teeth, and he backed away, waving Kit into the circle. “Come, then, little man, and prove your words, or by heaven I’ll feed them to you along with your liver.”

Kit grimaced. He could feel the eyes of the crowd upon him. He felt a tug on his trouser leg. Esther beamed up at him with her beatific smile.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I did,” Kit said. He knew he ought to just turn and carry his niece off to the rest of the fair. But pride held him in place, foolish pride.

Esther winked at him and said, “Let’s get him, Uncle Kit.” The fearless child stepped forward, and the crowd broke into laughter. Kit caught the girl beneath her arms and deposited her outside the circle. He slipped the sheath from his belt and handed the girl his knife in its buckskin scabbard.

“Esther, hold this for me. And a minute from now, if I’m alive, I’ll take it back.”

Kit advanced to the center of the circle as all through the crowd money exchanged hands and wagers were laid as to how long he would last. The outcome, after all, was inevitable. The Trenton Titan had the advantage of height and weight.

“So you show some spunk, eh?” the brawler muttered.

Kit didn’t bother to reply. Fights weren’t won with words. He sized up his chances and knew if he was to leave the circle in one piece he’d have to use brains as well as brawn. The Titan was a bull, and like a bull he fought only one way, hard and head on.

Kit’s thoughts drifted back to Young Otter and Stalking Fox. On the trail up from Florida, Kit, the Choctaws, and Iron Hand O’Keefe had encountered a Creek war party and fought a brief but furious skirmish during which Kit had observed his Choctaw allies in hand-to-hand combat. They fought with wild abandon and used their whole bodies to trip and kick and bludgeon their opponents. Kit had watched, and he had learned.

The Titan brought Kit back to the present with a feint. He lowered his shoulder and lumbered forward. Kit retreated and maneuvered himself around the circle until his back was to the men from New Jersey. The riverboat men tried to distract Kit with catcalls and insults. Kit turned a deaf ear to them; such men did not matter. The only one who mattered was preparing to attack.

With a grunt and a growl the Trenton Titan charged, all two hundred and eighty pounds of bad temper and meanness. Kit waited a second and then, to everyone’s surprise, lunged forward, but just as he closed with the big man he turned sideways and hurled himself into the Titan’s legs in a body block that caught the heavyset man in the shin.

The Titan grasped empty air and went flying, landing on his face in the dirt and skidding to the edge of the circle, spattering his cohorts with dirt in the process. The Titan cursed and lumbered to his feet in time to glimpse a blur of motion as Kit leaped up and planted both feet square in the Titan’s chest.

The brawler flew backward out of the circle and landed spread-eagled atop his companions, sinking a couple of them to the ground in the process.

The crowd erupted into cheers and Kit was suddenly transformed into the hero of the hour. However, a hero’s life is a risky business. Even as he turned to wave to his neighbors, the riverboat men, showing poor sportsmanship as well as the effects of the prodigious amounts of rum they’d consumed, plunged forward to avenge the Titan’s defeat. Jonah Greene, the blacksmith, and a half a dozen of the townsmen around the circle rushed forward to Kit’s defense.

Kit sensed the danger too late. He turned as one of the riverboat men, Weasel-Face, struck him full on the jaw. Kit stumbled, caught off balance, and fell. Weasel-Face leaped onto him and momentarily pinned Kit’s shoulders while the brawl erupted all around the circle.

Kit managed to squirm from side to side and free one arm as Weasel-Face grabbed a fist-sized stone and tried to bash Kit’s skull. Kit moved quicker and caught the stone-wielding hand. Weasel-Face cocked his free hand to batter the man he had pinned. Kit steeled himself, tried to shove free, and braced for the blow.

To Kit’s astonishment Weasel-Face screamed, scrambled off to one side, and clutched at the bloodied seat of his trousers. Kit sat upright and saw Esther Rose standing close by with Kit’s long-bladed knife in her hand. The tip was dotted with crimson where she had jabbed the shiny steel point into Weasel-Face’s posterior. The riverboat man scrambled to his feet.

“You little whelp,” he roared, and took one step forward. Kit dropped the man in his tracks with a single well-placed left hook that twisted the man’s head halfway around.

“Whee!” Esther Rose exclaimed as the battle raged about her. Kit grabbed her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and raced through the churned dust and bloody, battered souls who were having one hell of a fine time whipping these louts from Trenton. Kit had to dodge a few punches and returned in kind what came his way as Esther squealed with the excitement of it all.

At last Kit stumbled clear of the melee, and when he had trotted a safe distance from the combatants he set Esther down and collapsed wearily beside her to wipe the blood from his bruised knuckles. They were both quite grimy from the experience, and Esther’s dress was torn at the hem.

Uncle and niece stared at one another for a moment. Esther kissed him on his battered cheek.

“I knew you’d beat the hairy man,” she said.

“How did you know that?” Kit sucked in a lungful of air. The fighting had already begun to die down, ending as quickly as it had begun. The riverboat men were being led away, shown to their horses, and escorted out of town.

“’Cause I was there to help you,” the girl replied tenderly.

Kit thought of Weasel-Face and the look on the man’s face as Esther stuck him.

“I guess you were, at that.” He chuckled. “Why should I ever have worried?” Then he appraised her smudged cheek and soiled dress and had to sigh. “How am I ever going to be able to explain this to your mother?”

“Don’t even try,” Kit’s older sister sounded in an ominous voice. Her shadow draped across them both, man and child. Kit McQueen, the conqueror of titans, flashed his most winning smile and slowly turned. It was a game try, but one look at Hannah’s livid features, and he knew the cause was already lost.

K
ATE MCQUEEN DID HER
best to make lunch a pleasant experience. She led her quarreling family to a comfortable spot beneath the shade of a weeping willow down in front of the Friends’ House. She had spread a worn, wedding-ring-patterned quilt on the ground and set out pewter plates and cups, then unwrapped a platter of cold chicken she had roasted the previous night, a quarter wheel of cheese, and a loaf of bread. There was sweet cider to drink and, for dessert, ample portions of Hannah’s cherry cobbler with the “second place” ribbon still affixed to the cheesecloth and draped over the golden crust.

Time had not dimmed Kate’s beauty, but had only mellowed the fiery spirit behind her still striking features. Her yellow hair was highlighted with silver strands, and laugh lines wrinkled the flesh around her eyes and mouth. Hers had been a life full of love and laughter interspersed with sorrows that no one ever escapes with the passage of time. She had seen war. She had buried a daughter and a husband. But Kate refused to allow life’s pains to darken her spirit.

There was much to be thankful for, not the least of which was being here on this summer’s afternoon with Hannah and Kit and Kate’s own dear granddaughters, Penelope and Esther. It felt good to have her family together again. They only needed Captain Clay Burgade, Hannah’s husband, to complete the family. But Clayton Burgade had resumed command of a schooner and joined the fledgling fleet of American ships hoping to wrest control of the Great Lakes from the British. Hannah could only guess as to her husband’s whereabouts. His absence had taken its toll on her. So Kate could understand her daughter’s moods, the temper that flared as quickly as a firecracker and stung like a hornet.

“Enough, daughter,” Kate finally remarked, and Hannah, whose features were flushed from her most recent outburst, looked around at her mother and her mouth dropped open.

“But … surely you aren’t taking his side. Look at Esther, she might have been killed!” Hannah angrily tucked a brown curl back beneath her bonnet, but the errant strand worked loose and lay upon her rounded cheeks.

“I am taking the side of peace and quiet and proper digestion,” Kate said, reaching over to pat her daughter’s hand before withering Kit with a single, scathing glance. “Christopher is guilty of dreadfully poor judgment. I wholly agree. And you have said as much. So let there be an end to it. Esther is unharmed and there is nothing so wrong with her dress that a proper needle and thread won’t mend.”

Kate handed a chicken leg to Esther, who sidled over to her uncle. Kit sat with his back to the tree trunk and his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. The eight-year-old reached up and gave his nose a gentle bop with her chicken leg, then grinned and began to eat.

Kate noticed that Penelope and Matthew were seated close together. Matthew’s stomach growled as he positively beamed at the platter of chicken, all thoughts of romance and courtship put on hold until he had appeased the gnawing hunger in his belly. Penelope seemed more than a trifle miffed at his lack of attention to her. Kate managed to hide her amusement. Men were so much alike, appeasing their needs in strict priority, oblivious to the effects of their conduct on the women in their lives. Still, it was best Penelope became acquainted with these traits. At thirteen, she was still young enough to learn to make them work for her.

Kit went straight for the cobbler and helped himself to a dishful of the cherry-laden, syrupy concoction. “Hannah, I cannot believe this cobbler came in second. To what? There could have been nothing better.” Kit scooped a mouthful and sighed with contentment as he chewed and swallowed and smacked his lips. “By heavens, this is food for the gods, you mark my words.” He enjoyed another mouthful and winked at his sister.

“You keep your false compliments to yourself, Christopher McQueen,” Hannah replied, still peeved.

“Constance Oesterle won first place,” Kate added.

Kit sat upright, indignation on his face. “The judge’s sister? On my life, I’ll call him out, and we’ll settle this on the field of honor. His sister, too! The cheat! Never you fear, Hannah, I’ll right the wrong, be assured.”

“The only thing I can be assured of is that you will make a horse’s—” Hannah glanced around at the children, “uh—backside of yourself and embarrass me!” Hannah’s mouth was drawn into a taut, bloodless slash, more like a grimace. Kit thought she seemed to swell and then settle in on herself.

She shook her head, buried her face in her hands, and began to shudder. Kate looked alarmed. Kit set his plate aside and rose up on his knees to put his arm around Hannah.

“There, there, big sister. It’s all right,” Kit gently comforted. His voice sounded warm and full of compassion.

“Not if you have your way, you silly ox,” Hannah replied, and tilting her head back gasped for air as she subsided into laughter. Kit was caught off guard. He had expected tears. Then he realized the joke his sister had played on him, and he scowled with mock anger and returned to his place against the willow.

Kate had to smile. Everything would be fine now. She began to relax and enjoy her family, secure that the crisis had passed.

Kit looked down at Esther. “You know, I forgot to claim my winnings,” he suddenly realized. And the Trenton men were long gone. Hannah pointedly cleared her throat. Kit caught the hint. “Just an observation,” he added quickly. “In all innocence.”

He might have continued to place his foot in his mouth, but a string of exploding firecrackers interrupted him. The young boys responsible for the attack scampered off across the commons. By the time Hannah had regained her composure, she had forgotten her brother’s last remark. The weeping willow hung like a canopy around them. Kit’s thoughts drifted back to Barbary and the tents of the desert nomads. He had seen such sights, taken such risks, only to return empty-handed.

Bill Tibbs.
No, don’t think on him. Let those memories sink under their own bitter weight. There. That’s better. Empty-handed? No.
The pressure against his palm felt warm and reassuring. He lowered his gaze to Esther, dozing against him. Her hand had wormed its way into his fist as she nodded off.

He let her sleep.

By evening, the celebration had just about run its course. Every exhibit, from the silversmith’s to the potter’s, from the quilt exhibit to the limner’s tent show, had been visited. All the pies had been judged, a horse race had run its course, and livestock had been shown and auctioned off. Old Archibald MacIllhenny had entertained the crowd with his bagpipe tunes, and the Springtown fife and drum corps, though sorely depleted by the current hostilities with Britain, marched through the commons and circled the wildly cheering throng. “Yankee Doodle” brought the farmers and townsmen to their feet, and on the spur of the moment the populace followed the fife and drum corps in an impromptu parade around the Liberty Tree, a grand old oak that dominated the center of the Green. The tree had served as the focal point for many a patriotic rally during the Revolution. It remained an important symbol for the town and the surrounding community.

With the onset of night, campfires were started and dinners were prepared as families settled down to wait for the celebration’s final act to commence.