Chapter Twenty
An icy tremor ran down Deborah's back. An attack! After all Tshingee had said about wanting to avoid any violence how could he have attacked Deliverance? John wasn't even being held there!
Deborah pulled her head in the window, pressing her back to the plastered wall. After all of his declarations of being a peaceful man, how could Tshingee have injured innocent people? Was it jealousy over Tom? Had Tshingee come to take her back to the village? Something just didn't seem right. . . . She leaned back out the window.
"Father! Father!" James shouted.
The Earl appeared on the front stoop. "What the hell is going on here? What's all of the shouting?"
"Father. Deliverance is under attack! Redskins!" James exclaimed.
"Redskins?"
"Yes. sir." The rider nodded. "Young Mr. Hogarth says come quick with men and munitions. The Viscount's hurt somethin' fierce, a couple men dead, and the Injuns, they carried off some of the kitchen help!"
The Earl wiped his brow. "I knew we should have cleared this county of that red vermin years ago! James have horses saddled." He slapped his son on the back. "And for Christ's sake, boy, get dressed!"
Deborah slammed the window shut and raced to throw a gown over her shift. Rolling on a pair of wool stockings, she dropped to the floor to retrieve her kidskin riding boots. Hopping on one foot as she thrust the other into a boot, she rattled the knob on her bedchamber door.
"Someone! Let me out! Let me out of here!" On the lower floor she could hear the commotion as guests from the Christmas holidays scrambled to take up arms.
Deborah twisted the locked doorknob, giving the door a kick. "Damn it! Someone let me out of here!"
There were footsteps in the hallway and James's bedchamber door opened. "James!" Deborah called. "James! Let me out of here!"
"Let you out!" came James's high-pitched voice "Not bloody likely! Your redskin and his men have attacked Deliverance."
"It can't be, James! Someone's mistaken. Tshingee wouldn't—"
"The hell it's a mistake! You come out of that room"—his voice was fading now—"and father will wring your neck with his own hands!"
"James! James, come back!" She pounded on the door but already she could hear him running down the stairs.
"Damn it!" Deborah shouted. She ran to the window and threw it open again. The courtyard below was a mass of confusion. Men were shouting as they mounted horses, dogs barked, and women cried, waving their handkerchiefs. In the confusion of passing out weapons, a musket went off and a horse shied, throwing a rider into a snowbank.
Suddenly the Earl came bursting into the group, mounted on his horse. "Let's go, men! he shouted, throwing a hand over his shoulder. "You women stay in the house and lock up. Close the shutters. I'll leave Lester and some of my men to stand guard."
"Take care, William, Lady Celia urged from where she stood on the stoop "Don't get yourself killed!"
Deborah watched as the men rode out.
"Ladies! Ladies! Inside, please." Lady Celia directed below. One by one the women went back inside and the front door slammed shut.
Deborah took a deep breath. She had to get to Deliverance to see what had happened. She would not believe Tshingee had led an attack on the plantation until she saw the evidence herself. And the window was the only way out of her prison. She stared down at the snowy ground two stories below. She knew it was possible. Both Tshingee and Mary had managed, but could she do it?
Deborah swung one leg through the window, straddling the sill. If she was going, it would have to be now, before Lester and his men surrounded the house to guard it. Murmuring a prayer beneath her breath, Deborah swung the other leg over. Sitting on the sill with the skirt of her gown hiked up around her waist, she reached for the brick ledge below with the toe of her boot. The ledge was less than the width of her foot, nothing more than a row of protruding bricks added for decoration.
The first time Deborah's foot slipped on a patch of ice, she reached for the windowsill. "I can't do this," she muttered. "I'll break my neck." But after a few seconds passed, she turned back and started a long the ledge, her back pressed to the wall. She passed James's windows, refusing to look down. The wind was cold and snow blew off the roof, stinging her eyes, but she pressed on knowing there was no time to spare.
Miraculously she reached the roof of the winter kitchen without slipping. Stepping onto the solid wood of the cedar shingles, she heaved a sigh of relief. Slowly, she made her way down the slope of the lean-to roof. Reaching the lip, she stared down at the ground. Tshingee had climbed down a vine of ivy, but the ivy had died back and there was little foliage left to cling to.
She leaned farther over the overhang, searching for the rain barrel. If she could drop onto that . . . Suddenly Deborah's feet flew out from under her. She stifled a scream as she slipped backward and slid over the edge of the roof. The next thing she knew she was lying in a heap of snow near the back door of the kitchen.
Dazed, Deborah shook her head, blinking. Then she scrambled to her feet, praying no one had seen or heard her fall. Pressing her back to the kitchen wall, she slipped around the back of the house. Just as she caught sight of the barn, Lester came out, a musket propped on each shoulder. Deborah watched until he disappeared around the front of the house, then she made a run for the barn.
Sneaking in a side door, she crept through the semidarkness. It was warm and dry in the barn; the comforting smell of sweet hay and groomed horseflesh tantalized her nose. Reaching Joshua's stall, she stuck out her hand, smoothing his velvety nose. "Now about a ride, boy? Wouldn't that be nice?"
Creeping past his stall, she entered the tack room and reached for her sidesaddle. Then, on second thought, she took hold of the pummel of one of her father's saddles and heaved it over her shoulder. Retrieving a bridle, she slipped into Joshua's stall and saddled him up.
Leading Joshua into the main hall of the barn, she took an old patched wool cloak and a battered leather hat off the wall. Throwing the cloak over her shoulders, she stuffed the hat over her head and turned to face her mount. Deborah stared at the stirrup hanging down from the saddle. It made sense that it would be easier to ride astride, but she'd never tried it.
"Now or never," she murmured beneath her breath. Holding Joshua steady, she pushed her foot into the stirrup and swung up. Deborah hit the top of the saddle, grinning. "That was it?" She lifted the reins, proud of her accomplishment. If she'd have known it was that easy to mount, she'd have given up riding sidesaddle long ago!
Deborah caught her breath and stared in horror at the carnage before her. Her hands shook as she rode through the barnyard at Deliverance, unnoticed by neighbors and friends. Disemboweled animals were strewn everywhere, their entrails still steaming in the frigid air. The snow was stained crimson with blood. The warm nauseating scent of a fresh kill lingered over the yard, mixing with the smell of charred wood. Although a fire in the main house and the barn had been successfully extinguished, smoke still clung in the air and ashes littered the slain horses and cows.
A few men from Host's Wealth were riding in circles on horseback, shouting orders to bondmen, while other men dragged several lifeless bodies up the front steps into the front hall of the manor house.
Deborah rode Joshua up to the entranceway and dismounted, tying him loosely to an iron-ringed hitching post. Slowly she walked up the steps, following a trail of smeared blood.
Thomas's mother sat in a chair in the front hall, her face buried in her hands. Her entire body shook with sobs.
"Lady Hogarth?" Deborah ran to her, kneeling on the floor. She gave no mind to the puddles of melted snow and smears of blood the men had brought in on the soles of their boots. "Lady Hogarth, it's Deborah!"
Lattice Hogarth lifted her head. Her face was streaked with tears and spattered with droplets of blood. "My poor Morris," she moaned. "My poor Morris is gone!"
Deborah lifted the hem of her gown to wipe Lady Hogarth's face. "Where's Tom?" she asked. "Is Tom all right?"
Lady Hogarth raised a hand, pointing into the parlor. "There, with the bodies," she managed.
Deborah got up. "I'll be right back," she promised, patting the elder woman reassuringly on the shoulder. "Stay right here."
Just then two bondmen from Host's Wealth came up the front steps carrying a lifeless body. The face of the corpse had been covered with an old feedsack.
Deborah swallowed hard, following the men into the parlor.
"Here." Thomas instructed. "Lay the body here." Deborah stared in disbelief at the neat row of bodies lined up on the parlor floor. The men laid the body down gently and left the room.
"Tom."
Tom slowly lifted his head. "Deborah? Jesus! What are you doing in here?" He stepped over a body, grasping her arm. "You shouldn't be here!"
"Tom." She took his hands, tears welling in her eyes. "What happened?"
He stared at her, his face pale, his eyes glazed. "I . . . I don't know exactly. It all happened so quickly. I was doing some figures in the office and suddenly people were screaming. No one ever saw them coming. They were just here."
"Who, Tom?"
"Indians. They were everywhere, some with muskets but most of them with bows and arrows and those war hatchets. They killed livestock, they raped women and carried some of them off."
"Your father?"
He nodded in the direction of a body lying near the fireplace. It was covered entirely by a clean linen sheet. "Dead."
"Oh God, Tom. Why?"
"Why?" Tears rose in his eyes and he wiped at them with the sleeve of his bloodstained shirt. "How the hell should I know why!" he shouted at her. "I guess they wanted the halfbreed."
"John? But why would they come here for him? It's common knowledge he's being held at Mac-Clouds'."
"I don't know. I don't know." He shook his head, walking away. "All I know is that there are four women missing from the kitchen and one from the dairy. So far we've found seven dead men, two children. There're still bodies in the barn but they're burned so badly that I don't know how many there were."
Deborah wiped her mouth with her hand, fighting the nausea that rose in her throat "Tom. This just doesn't make sense. They couldn't have been looking for John Wolf. I know Tshingee wouldn't have done this. Are you sure the Indians were Lenni Lenape?"
"How the hell should I know? They were Indians!" He lowered himself into a chair, his hands falling to his sides in helplessness.
Deborah stared at the line of bodies that stretched across the room. "Why are all of the faces covered?" She knelt to touch one of the cloth coverings but Tom leaped up, grasping her hand.
"Don't."
"What? Why? I wanted to see who it was." The body she knelt beside was a young man dressed in his Sunday best.
"No need to see. It's Paulie Barker."
"Paulie? The boy that worked for the Mac-Clouds?" Deborah stared at the blood-soaked cloth that covered his face. "The one that stutters?"
"Did stutter." Tom's face was ashen. "He was courting one of the kitchen girls. The redskins carried her off." He grasped Deborah's hands, raising her to her feet. "Could you check on Mama? She's in the hall. She needs to be taken up to her room. No need for her to see any more than she's already seen. You don't belong in here either."
"Tom," she said steadily. "You didn't tell me why their faces are covered."
"Deborah, I'm begging you. Please go."
"Tom! Look at me!" She touched his cheek with her fingertips.
"Because they were mutilated," he shouted, choking back a sob.
"Mutilated?" She looked at Paulie's body at her feet. "Mutilated how?"
"My God, Deborah, have you gone insane?"
With one quick motion she yanked the cotton sack from Paulie's face. Her hand trembled.
The ears had been sliced off his head.
Deborah took a deep breath, dropping the covering back over Paulie's face. "Tom," she said quietly. "The Lenni Lenape didn't do this. It wasn't John's brother. It had to be Mohawks."
"It was Indians!" He shouted. "Now go on, get out of here. If your father finds out you've been here—"
"My father! she interrupted. "Where is he?"
"Gone." Tom leaned on the mantel of the fireplace, reaching for a decanter of brandy.
"Gone where?"
"MacCloud's," he answered quietly.
"MacCloud's? Whatever for?" But before the words were out of her mouth, Deborah knew why they'd gone. "John . . ." she murmured beneath her breath.
"Yea. They've gone to do what they should have done long ago," Tom answered bitterly.
Deborah turned and ran out of the parlor, through the hall, and down the steps. Yanking up Joshua's reins, she swung into the saddle and wheeled the horse around and headed for the MacCloud's.
Before Deborah reached the border of the Mac-Cloud plantation, she could hear a crowd of men hooting and muskets being fired. Riding out of the woods and into the clearing, she galloped full speed toward the barn. The farmyard was filled with neighbors on horseback and on foot. Noble and common man alike stood in clumps shouting and raising their fists in protest as they passed around flasks of whiskey.
"What's happening here?" Deborah demanded of the nearest person.
"They come to get the redskin." A boy of fifteen swept off his hat, pointing in the direction of the barn. "Only Mr. MacCloud, he says it ain't right. He says he ain't releasin' the prisoner 'til the sheriff comes for him."
Deborah leaned in her saddle, scanning the crowd of men. The Earl of Manchester stood at the door of the barn, shouting and waving a fist at Charlie MacCloud. "Step aside, boy!" he ordered.
Charlie stood his ground, his feet spread, a musket cradled in his arms. "I will not, sir."
"I said step aside and let justice be done!"
"Justice, sir, will come from the English court, not from a group of drunken men."
The Earl's face reddened with anger. "If you don't step aside, boy, your father—"
"My father is not here. He's in Annapolis celebrating the Yuletide and while he's gone, I am master here."
"Do as the Earl says and step aside, Charlie." a man shouted from the crowd.
"Step aside before you're hurt," another added. "By the King's ass, what's wrong with you, Charlie MacCloud," the Earl demanded. "Didn't I just tell you that this redskin's men massacred innocent women and children at Deliverance? Viscount Hogarth is dead, for God's sake!"
"It doesn't matter." Charlie shook his head. "The man inside this barn killed no one today. It hasn't even been proven that he killed your bond-servant, sir.
"Are you calling me a liar?" The Earl raised a fist below Charlie's nose.
"No, sir. I am not. I'm simply saying that our English law requires that this man have a fair trial. My father will be bringing someone back with him tomorrow to take the Indian to Annapolois. He's been held unjustly too long. He has a right—"
"And what of Morris Hogarth's right?" demanded a voice from the crowd.
Men cheered in response and someone lifted a musket over his head, firing a shot. "Yeah, what of Hogarth's rights?" came a shout. The crowd of angry men pressed closer to Charlie MacCloud, their voices rising in frenzied unison.
"I'm warning you one last time, boy," the Earl threatened. "We want justice and justice we will have."
Before Charlie could speak again, one of the Earl's men darted forward, striking Charlie in the temple with the butt of his musket. To Deborah's horror, Charlie fell to the snowy ground. The crowd cheered, advancing toward the barn.
Someone dragged Charlie's unconscious body out of the way of the front doors and the main bulk of the crowd stormed the barn.
Deborah stifled a cry of protest as the men opened the barn door and swarmed inside. Sinking her heels into Joshua's sides, she rode forward, dismounting next to Charlie's unconscious body. "Charlie! Charlie! Are you all right? Wake up! You've got to stop them!" She pulled his cocked hat off his head, running a hand through his fiery red hair. "Charlie?"
Charlie MacCloud came to slowly. "Deborah?" He tried to sit up but then dropped his head back again.
"Charlie, you've got to get up!" She cradled his head in her lap, wiping his bloody temple with the edging of her petticoat. "They're going to kill him!"
A burst of applause brought Deborah's attention to the entrance of the barn. The crowd of men stepped out into the barnyard hollering and shaking their fists in the air. John was being held up between two burly bondman, his face battered and bloody. Someone threw a bucket of water in his face and John's eyes flew open.
"You can't do this!" Deborah shouted, leaping to her feet. "You've no right!"
"What the hell is she doing here?" the Earl shouted, seeing his daughter for the first time. "Someone! James! Get her out of here! This is no place for a damned female!"
Two men grasped Deborah's arms, pulling her backward. She struggled, kicking and screaming. Her hat flew off her head as she ducked, twisting free. "He deserves a fair trial," she shouted at the men, pushing her way among them. "You can't do this!"
"The hell we can't," someone answered.
Just then two riders came up the drive. One held Bridget firmly in front of him, the other struggled to carry Mary and still remain astride. The little girl screamed and kicked fiercely, stretching to scratch the man's eyes.
"Mary! Bridget!" Deborah ran toward them. "Why have you brought them here?" she demanded of the men. "Release them immediately!"
The man carrying Bridget lifted her out of the saddle and pushed her roughly to the ground. Bridget rolled into a ball in the snow, sobbing.
"Get up," Deborah insisted, grasping the Irish woman's arm. Giving no heed to Deborah, Bridget only wailed louder, pulling her shawl up over her head.
As the man carrying Mary rode past Deborah, the little girl sank her teeth into the man's forearm.
"Damnation!" the rider shouted, losing his grip on Mary.
Mary fell from the horse, but hit the ground running. "Deb-or-ah! Deborah!" she shouted.
Deborah closed her arms around the child, hugging her tightly against her. "It's all right," she soothed, smoothing back the child's tangled hair. "It's all right, Mary. I won't let them harm you."
Keeping her arm tightly around Mary, Deborah walked up to the man who had brought Bridget into the compound. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. "Why have you brought them here?"
"I don't have to answer to you." the man replied, yanking off his hat. He looked up at the sea of angry male faces. "I say we hang the bunch of them and be through with the red bastard and his whore!"
Deborah recognized the man as a farmer from a plot of land near Deliverance. "You'll do no such thing," she snapped. "Father! Father!" She pushed her way through the crowd, spotting the Earl standing near John. "You're not going to let them do this, are you?" she pleaded.
"I've no control over these men."
"No control!" she scoffed. "How can you say that? You brought them here! It was your idea. It's been you from the start. You were the one who wanted to take John's land! You were the one—"
"Enough!" the Earl snarled. "I'll not be spoken to like this by my own daughter! You go too far this time!"
Deborah wheeled around to face the crowd of men. "Don't you see what you're doing by taking the law into your own hands? You're as guilty as he is if you hang him!"
"Are we going to have a hanging here, gentleman?" a man shouted from the crowd. "Or are we going to listen to this babbling female?"
"Hang him!" came angry voices from the crowd. "Hang the red bastard! Hang them all!"
Deborah turned to face John; her eyes met his. He hung limply between his captors, making no effort to fight them. His once thick, shining black hair fell in greasy strings about his face. He had a ragged beard and his nose was permanently bent at a peculiar angle. "Bridget. Mary. Save them," he pleaded quietly. "The good Lord has other plans for me, but save my wife and child."
The men lifted John between the two of them and carried him off, heading toward a great oak tree just beyond the barn.
"You can't let them do this, Father," Deborah cried, following her father with Mary still clinging to her side. "You can't let them hang him! He's had no trial! He's an innocent man!"
"She's supposed to be in her bedchamber," James declared, coming up behind her. "How do you think she got out, Father?"
The Earl glanced over his shoulder. "I'll deal with her later," he barked.
"You want me to have one of the men take her home?" James hurried to catch up with his father.
"No. Let her stand here and watch. Let her see what becomes of murdering filth." The Earl of Manchester's eyes glimmered with a macabre excitement. "I remember my first hanging. He patted his son on the back, moving with the crowd of men toward the tree. "I wasn't more than ten. Damn fine day it was, just outside of London . . ."
Deborah stood for a moment, letting the men brush past her. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the tears that threatened to spill as she held Mary close to her. Never in her life had she felt so helpless. For a moment, she stood unmoving, unable to accept that she could do nothing to save John.
"No! No! Not my John!" Bridget shouted, running though the barnyard after the crowd of men. "Heavenly Father, not my John!"
A man caught Bridget by the skirt of her gown and she screamed. Before Deborah could stop her, Mary was running toward her mother. Deborah cursed under her breath.
Beneath the tree two men were stringing up a hangman's noose. John had already been mounted on a horse, his hands tied behind his back.
"Mary! Come back here! Bridget! Come back before you're killed!" Deborah struggled to reach them but they were being surrounded by the loud, jeering men.
"Not my John! No!" Bridget sobbed. Someone knocked her to the ground with his fist and she began crawling toward John.
Spinning around, Deborah sprinted for her horse. She had to get Mary and Bridget out of here! Mounting Joshua, she tugged on his reins, wheeling him around. John was led to the tree and someone slid the noose over his head. For an instant Deborah froze in horror; she just couldn't believe this was happening.
A musket sounded and the horse John was mounted on shied. Deborah squeezed her eyes shut just as the noose snapped.