The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (14 page)

Her lungs tightened. Paul had said two colonels were with her husband when he brutalized Constance.

She glanced around. The officers were alone. They must have been sent by her husband to find her. Yet they had no idea they had already captured their prize.

Sandy Hair circled behind her, reached up to her neck to untie her cloak. Clara’s hand instinctively shot up to stop him.

“Be still, my little pug. You know what we want and you know how to give it to us.”

A chill of terror stilled her as Sandy Hair stripped her of her cloak, then began stroking her unbound hair with shaking, clammy fingers. She fought back tears.

“You must be well-kept to dress in silks,” said the fat colonel.

She hadn’t thought that might give her away. All of her clothes were well-made of expensive European fabrics. Everything packed in her box was of fine stuff. She prayed they would not suspect her of anything more than having a rich patron.

“That’s quite a gallant who could array you in such fine frocks, my girl,” Fat One continued. “Who is he? General Washington? Benjamin Franklin?”

Sandy Hair chuckled. “Or maybe it’s the whoremaster Bridgers. His wines were rather expensive. He must have paid Satan to get them here from France.”

The two men laughed.

Her heart clenched. They knew Paul. They knew he had whores. It must have been they who set fire to the brothel.

Fat One went back to his horse to search in his saddlebag. “Bollocks! Last one.” He returned carrying a bottle of wine, then, mimicking a grotesque butler, displayed the label to Clara. She immediately recognized it as a very expensive and rare vintage, something her husband had taught her, never having realized that Paul was the one who had supplied such scarce luxuries. She tried to keep her reaction neutral.

“Would you like some, my little moll?” drawled the lesser officer still pawing at her hair. “It’s very good. I’m sure even your blasted gallant hasn’t offered you such a treasure.” He emitted a gravelly and malodorous belch.

Clara froze. They were expecting an answer. She had no idea how to feign an American accent, so she figured she would simply try a new voice.

“No, thank you,” she said with a clumsy inflection and timbre unlike her own.

Luckily, they did not really care what her answer was, and practically ignored her. They had no reason to suspect she was the wife of General Strathmore alone in the middle of nowhere. They began to drink the wine, passing the bottle back and forth between them, laughing and talking of things that did not concern her, pacing aimlessly, until they closed in on her, Fat One in front, Sandy Hair at her back. Fat One grabbed her waist. She flinched with a shudder, but he continued to draw his hands up to cup her breasts as she stood stock-still, too scared to stop him. Suddenly, Sandy Hair shoved her forward. Clara held out her hands as if to catch herself, instead falling onto Fat One. He gripped her wrists tightly and forced her down as Sandy Hair held her ankles. Together they brought her to the ground on her hands and knees.

She struggled to get away, but they held fast, laughing at her.

Sandy Hair pressed his knees on her calves and into the rough ground, then tossed up her skirts from behind. She struggled again, only to have her legs cruelly pressed against the rocky dirt. “Give me a swig of that,” Sandy Hair said to his companion. He drank liberally, gulping noisily, belching after popping the bottle from his lips. His free hand roamed over her buttocks before he forced his thumb into her split. She winced at the intrusion and her stomach churned.

“You’re a professional, sweet. I expect you to be ready.” He spread her cheeks and spit on her twice, the second time missing his mark considerably.

Clara screwed her eyes shut, squeezing out tears, praying the act would be over as soon as possible. He fumbled behind her, probably to unbutton his breeches, but taking far too long for such a simple act. Finally, he pressed his fist against her, smooshing something soft into her quim. She opened her eyes, only to see the fat colonel removing his flaccid penis from the fall of his breeches.

“Fuck. You do it,” Sandy Hair said pushing her forward so her face fell onto the colonel’s impotence.

“There’s an idea. Why don’t you give me a suck, molly?” Fat One waggled his limp member. “There’s a good girl.”

He pinched her nose. She gasped for air and he shoved his flabby cock in her mouth. Impulsively, she spit him out. The officers laughed.

“I see you’ve not been to France, doxy,” said Fat One, withdrawing from her face. “Put her on her back. She’ll know what to do.”

Sandy Hair chuckled as he pushed Clara to the ground, manhandling her until she lay on her back and he straddled her face, pinning her shoulders to the dirt. She struggled for air only to breathe in the stench of his crotch. The colonel forced her legs open and tried unsuccessfully to shove himself inside her. He retreated to perform some exertion, then tried his assault again, still to no avail. He reached for the bottle of wine left on the ground and noisily finished it off.

Sandy Hair swayed above her, his eyes struggling to stay open. He fell forward and off her, rolling into an awkward position. Now free of his weight, Clara sat up. Fat One still knelt between her legs. He muttered an oath about the wine before tossing the bottle to the side, twisting his body as he did so. It was her only chance. She kicked, striking him on the upper arm, shocking both herself and the colonel. For the briefest of moments he stared at her strangely, his body teetering ever so slightly. With all her might, Clara struck with her left leg and then again with the right. Fat One swooned and fell over onto his back, his head hitting a rock with a hollow thud, his body motionless, contorted in an ugly form.

As if he were dead.

She remained on the ground paralyzed, the only sound her pounding heart until it was drowned by the meter of Sandy Hair’s deep drink-induced slumber. She moved carefully, trying not to make any noise as she got up and wrapped her cloak around her. She turned in what she hoped was the right direction, sneaking away unnoticed, until her cloak betrayed her, catching on the empty wine bottle, sending it rolling with a clink against the hard ground.

A thick hand gripped her ankle, pitching her forward onto her knees.

“Where do you think you’re going, whore?” Sandy Hair grappled her around the waist, turning her onto her back, crushing his weight on top of her. He twisted her hair in his fist and pressed his face into hers, the stink of his breath making her want to vomit. “You know what we do to cunts what don’t cooperate?”

Clara turned her head as far as she could, only to have a view of Fat One’s exposed crotch.

“We
make
’em cooperate.” Sandy Hair tightened his fist, pulling her head back. “If you’d’ve seen Bridgers’s twat all bloody and crying, I reckon you’d spread your legs faster than a bunter for a guinea.”

With all her might Clara shoved against him, pushing his chest with her shoulders and arms. Sandy Hair grabbed her wrists and bore down even harder, crushing her into the ground, his hip grinding something into her thigh.

The sheath of the knife.

A prickling chill spread through her body. She knew what she had to do. It was the only way out.

She sucked in a bolstering breath, then flailed against him, her arms, her legs twisting and kicking, roaring screams into his face, her frenzy surprising him long enough for her to heave up and scramble out from under him and onto her feet.

Her heart pounding in her head, her lungs burning for air, she reached under the drape of her overskirt and found the knife, unsheathing it with trembling hands. Sandy Hair endeavored to stand, faltering on his knees, his foot slipping on a rock, sending him tumbling face-first onto the ground. She had to do it while he was down.

She had never killed a man, of course, and had no idea how one might go about doing such a wretched thing. The thumping beats of her heart increased, echoing in her throat and ears, a pulsing rhythm to her frantic thoughts.

She put her hand over her left breast. In the heart. That was certain to kill a man.

Gathering courage and rage, she plunged in, kicking a stupefied Sandy Hair to turn him over, stabbing his chest, having to use both hands to wrench the knife out of the wound, stabbing again, and again, until he lay defeated beneath her.

The white of his shirt turned red as blood soaked the fabric.

Clara jolted backwards in revulsion, hitting Fat One’s legs, eliciting a groan.

He wasn’t dead.

She froze. She couldn’t do it again.

Fat One twitched.

She
had
to do it again.

She clambered above the colonel, wielding the weapon in a daze, barely noticing how this time the knife felt lighter, the flesh softer, perhaps because the buzzing in her brain was deafening, her vision obscured with tears and sweat. Within minutes, Fat One lay motionless, blood covering his shirt, his waistcoat, his face frozen in twisted agony.

She stood over the officers, catching her breath, hate still boiling within. Her gaze fell to their crotches where limp penises spilled from unbuttoned plackets.

It would be like slicing salt pork for stew.

She reached out and grabbed Sandy Hair’s genitals. The knife was sharp, it was too easy. Next, Fat One was swiftly unmanned.

Clara stumbled up to standing, wavering on buckling knees, disbelieving the sight before her, the blood on her knife the only evidence of the savagery she had just done. She gulped sobs of horror and relief as she washed the blade and her hands from Fat One’s canteen, then dried the weapon on his breeches before sheathing it.

She glanced around, trying to get her bearings as to which way might be north. She studied the horses thoughtfully. She did not know how to ride unassisted. Besides, having such an animal might trace her to the murder of the officers which, even though it occurred in the lawless American colonies, was still a capital offense.

Still shaking, she tried to calm her nerves, to steady her breath so she could think clearly. Paul was out there somewhere. Wherever he was, he promised to meet her at the American fort. She had no choice but to press on in the direction she best guessed was north.

Chapter Ten

Captain Samuel Taylor sat atop his horse surveying the quiet woods, scratching the stubble on his cheeks, his gaze focused on the pale shafts of morning sunlight misting through the trees. He raked his fingers through his unbound hair, then grunted a chuckle. He really should be attending to those daily ablutions that made a man more presentable, such as fashioning a queue and shaving, but some days he just didn’t feel like it. Especially a clear, cold, autumn morning like this, when a walk in the woods would be just the thing. He settled his tricorn firmly on his head. It was a damn shame he had a war to fight.

He and several men from his regiment stationed at Fort Revolution had set up camp in the area waiting for a delivery from Paul Bridgers. It had been a couple of weeks since they pitched their tents, a little longer than usual, but Sam wasn’t worried just yet. The fighting hadn’t yet reached their location. And the intelligence brought back by his scouts and their civilian informants sounded more like a melodrama than a war.

A handful of redcoats had encroached in the area, not a whole regiment, just a few Brits, one account claiming they were officers. Additionally, two women, the wife of a British general and her maid, had been kidnapped by rogue Americans hoping to acquire a hefty ransom for their return. Sam figured all the bits of information were related, that the redcoats were searching for the women, so he decided his scouts should expand their perimeter.

One of them approached. “We found something, captain,” announced Corporal Silas Ogden.

“Finally,” Sam rolled his eyes and followed Silas on horseback.

They arrived at a gathering of patriots surrounding a young woman who clutched her black cloak tightly around her. Sam dismounted and passed through the group, his men parting before him.

“What do we have here?” he asked no one in particular. The girl looked frightened. He hoped his men had not done anything to harm her.

“She says she’s Lady Strathmore, sir, the wife of General Strathmore,” said Silas.

“The one being held for ransom?” Sam studied the girl. She fit the description of one of the women well enough: pretty, light brown hair, green eyes, a cloak of expensive cloth. If she were really the missing lady, she had somehow gotten free of her kidnappers, an adventure suggested by her dirty and disheveled appearance and the fact that she was apparently found wandering around in the woods alone. Yet, she was much younger than he had expected for the wife of a general. He gave her a questioning look but she did not accept the challenge, so he addressed her directly. “Why should I believe that you are Lady Strathmore?”

Her brow wrinkled in scorn. “Because I am,” she replied succinctly in an imperious tone.

Sam sighed. “Right.” He did not want to deal with the situation in front of his men. He would wait until later. “Corporal Mercer,” he said to the most senior soldier standing guard over the girl, “please escort the lady to our camp, to my tent. I will be there presently.”

“Yes, captain.”

Sam once again took off his hat and raked his fingers through his unruly curls. They would have to remain alert for any British soldiers searching for their lady, as well as be on the lookout for the American kidnappers. And now he was part of the equation and could not help but wonder if there was something he could gain from the situation. Perhaps trade the young lady for some needed supplies? No, Paul would get those to him, he was certain. What about an exchange of prisoners of war?

“Captain?”

The familiar, always-welcome voice of First Lieutenant Patrick Hamilton broke Sam’s reverie. Sam turned to his friend. “Yes, Pat?”

“You look lost in thought. Want to share?”

“You know about General Strathmore’s career, right? How old do you think he might be?”

Pat thought for a moment. “He fought in the Seven Years’ War against the French and the Indians. He was quite a rising star in the ranks. I think he was already a colonel or something back then. Maybe in his mid-forties? Why?”