John Fraser was hurt.
No matter how many times Daniel Boone assured him that they were "making good time" Wyatt was losing patience…and hope. It had been hours since Lucy had been taken and while John Fraser confidently maintained that Lucy was still alive, Wyatt was haunted too much by Jessica's murder to take much relief from his optimism.
Besides, it wasn't just his concern over Lucy's life that had him cursing every delay.
Wyatt wasn't an idiot - he had seen first-hand how much those assholes had abused her when they had first landed in this century. Lucy was…vulnerable…and the longer she remained out of his reach and protection, the greater the chances that she would be assaulted…if she hadn't been already. By now, he figured she most certainly had been…and the thought made him sick,,.and all the more anxious to find her and beat the hell out of every single French soldier he could lay his hands on.
Fate, the universe…or just his damn luck had other plans, however.
They hadn't quite reached the summit of the hill they had been climbing when the root John Fraser had been bracing himself on gave way and sent him careening down the sheer, rocky side of the mountain, nearly taking Rufus with him. "John!" Daniel Morgan called out as he tried to make a grab for his friend, but the Scottish trader slid past him and tumbled down the hillside before disappearing off the edge of a sharp outcropping.
"Shit!" Wyatt exclaimed as he scrambled his way back down the side of the ridge, practically tripping over his own two feet as he frantically made his way over to the spot where John had fallen. Breathing heavily and bracing himself for the worst, he called down to Daniel Morgan, who was already swinging himself down into the gully below in search of his friend, "Do you see him?"
"Aye!" came the encouraging response, "he's here – but he's in a right state."
Wyatt breathed out a curse and sat back on his haunches, surveying the unforgiving landscape around them. Large boulders jutted out from the side of what was essentially a cliff, dropping down into another section of forest. Climbing down into that abyss would be one thing…climbing out of it? Nearly impossible.
Dammit.
Still, what could he do? John Fraser was his friend. He hadn't asked him to come along on this mission to find Lucy…he had just done it out of the goodness of his heart. To abandon him in his moment of need when he had been so good to him these past few months? Wyatt couldn't even think of it. Above him, somewhere, he knew, was the trail that he hoped would lead to Lucy…but he couldn't even glance towards it as he muttered to Rufus, "Come on, we need to help him."
If Rufus disagreed with Wyatt's pronouncement, he didn't let on, instead, he wordlessly followed the Delta Force soldier down the treacherous cliffside, followed closely behind by Daniel Boone, who was already calling out suggestions to Daniel Morgan on how to make John more comfortable.
Bloodied and bruised from his fall with what was undoubtedly a broken arm lying at an odd angle at his side, John Fraser waved at them weakly with his good hand as they approached. "You shouldn't have come for me, lad," he gritted out in obvious pain, "you have your own troubles."
"You think I was going to leave you?" Wyatt gruffly replied, though inside he was kicking himself for being so damn noble.
As if reading Wyatt's thoughts, Daniel Boone clapped him on the shoulder and assured, "Don't you worry, we'll regain that trail." Nodding towards his injured friend he chided, "John here was just trying to find us a shortcut, weren't you?"
"Shortcut?' Wyatt asked hopefully.
"Well certainly," Boone shrugged, "we can make our way to the next valley from here…it's just we've got a little bit of bog to pass through to get there. Might'n get a bit chilly."
That turned out to be an understatement.
Just as Daniel Boone said, this section of forest, while more level, was boggy. It took the combined efforts of Daniel Boone, Daniel Morgan and John Fraser to navigate their way through the marshy underbrush and even then it didn't prevent Rufus from sinking knee deep in muck when he made one wrong step to his left.
"Dammit!" he groaned as Wyatt pulled him free. "Hang on…I lost my damn shoe!" Lying on his stomach, Rufus rolled up his sleeves and fished around in the muddy water until he pulled out a dripping mass of mud and leaves. "Oh great…" Rufus grumbled as he attempted to clean off chunks of dirt in disgust.
"If I'm not mistaken," John observed with a smirk, "we're not too far from the Youghiogheny…just a half a mile or so down the ridge there…we can get that cleaned up in no time."
"Half a m…" Rufus began staring blankly after the three frontiersmen who were making their way down the trail. "Just how in the hell am I supposed to make my way in these woods wearing just one shoe?" he hissed at Wyatt.
The echoes of what was undoubtedly the crack of a pistol sounded overhead and Wyatt shrugged, "Sounds like that should be the least of your worries, Rufus," he sighed, "Being in this valley isn't exactly the safest place for us…"
"You think that's the French?" Rufus gasped anxiously, limping after him.
"Could be." Wyatt mused with a frown, "Who the hell knows out here? I just don't like this land. I mean, look around you…we're in a damn swamp." Pointing above them, he noted, "If the French were tracking us…hell, they'd have no problem taking each and every one of us out…it'd be like shooting fish in a barrel."
"Well…that's comforting." Rufus gulped anxiously before scampering after Wyatt again. "But that's why we need to get out of here as soon as we can, right? Right?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So, I think we'd be moving a hell of a lot faster if…"
"Oh no," Wyatt said as he shook his head adamantly, "You can walk. I am not carrying your ass around this damn marsh."
"Come on, Wyatt," Rufus groaned. "Just…just to the river, okay?" As Wyatt continued to make his way through the bog, carefully stepping where their more seasoned companions had led, Rufus continued to hound Wyatt with comments about his "muddy ass foot" and each and every time his not so subtle suggestions were met by a resounding "no."
Rufus, however, was not deterred.
"Fine," he spat out as he navigated his stockinged foot over a particularly large puddle, "but the sooner we take care of this, the sooner you can save Lucy. Uh-huh," he nodded, as Wyatt finally stopped and glared back at him, "I knew that would get your attention. The way I figure it, the longer we stay out here, the longer it's going to take us to catch up to the damn French…"
Throwing his head back in annoyance, Wyatt cursed, "Dammit, Rufus…fine. Get on my back."
"You mean it?" Rufus gasped, hardly believing he had actually broken down Wyatt's willpower. "You'll carry me?"
"Do it now before I change my mind," Wyatt gritted out as Rufus quickly scrambled onto his back, "I cannot believe…hey watch it, will ya?" he spat out as Rufus accidentally kicked him in the stomach. "Not a word, you hear me? I will leave your ass on the nearest log if you so much as mention that damn foot of yours again."
Encumbered now as he was with Rufus, Wyatt trudged his way through the woods with a little less ease than before, but with considerably more speed since Rufus was no longer stopping every five seconds to complain about his "wet sock." True to his word, Rufus didn't speak a word, but when they made their way to where John Fraser, Daniel Boone and Daniel Morgan sat waiting for them, their arrival was met with more than a little confused fanfare.
"Is he hurt?" John asked in real concern as Rufus slid off of his back.
"No, just squeamish." Wyatt spat out, pointing Rufus towards the sounds of rushing water, "Go on…wash your damn shoe."
As Rufus quickly headed down towards the sound of the rushing stream, Wyatt peered through the near darkness…near, because he could have sworn he saw…
"Um…I hate to be that guy," Rufus announced as he stood awkwardly off to the side, looking somewhat sick "but I think we have a problem…"
"Dammit, Rufus," Wyatt groaned as he rolled his eyes, "just put your damn shoe on we don't have time to…what?"
Casting an uneasy glance at his friend who was shaking his head and pointing to the river, Wyatt strode past him, followed closely by a curious Daniel Morgan. He hadn't even reached the shoreline when it became evidently clear what Rufus had been referring to. Lying face down in the water, plain as day, was the mutilated body of a British soldier, swiftly making its way downstream.
Letting out a low whistle beside him, Daniel Morgan removed his hat from his head, "Lord save him. I wonder what got him?"
"I heard a gunshot a while back…" Wyatt began, but the words had barely left his mouth when four more bodies came rushing down stream.
"That's one hell of a gunshot." Morgan murmured in alarm, "Come on, lad," he breathed out anxiously, "We must tell the others…it appears we stumbled into a bit of trouble."
"Do you think they're Gage's?" Daniel Boone asked grimly as he perched himself on a rocky ledge above the river. At Wyatt's confused expression, he explained, "Braddock sent an advanced guard of 400 men to clear the road of any obstacles for our flying column of 1400. We hain't heard from them in a few days…the rain, no doubt, kept the messengers at bay."
"What are you saying?"
"He's saying that it seems our French friends found Braddock's missing column," Daniel Morgan replied as he looked at Wyatt seriously.
"We can't know that for sure." John Fraser remarked as he gingerly got his feet, "we have no idea who engaged these men…or when," he added with a meaningful nod, "with this many dead," he said as nodded to several more bodies sweeping downstream, "you think we would have heard more than just one gunshot."
"Could be an acoustic shadow," Wyatt muttered with a musing frown, peering out into the distance. "Happens sometimes in war," he explained, "You could be right next to a battle and not hear a damn thing." Nodding to the trees, he added, "I thought…I mean, I can't be sure, but when we got here, I thought I saw…flashes."
"Musket fire?" John asked as Wyatt nodded seriously.
"If the French have indeed attacked Gage's men, Braddock will have to be informed immediately," Daniel Boone cried, "He'll have no reconnaissance, no one to meet him at the rendezvous point…he'll be blind, deep into enemy territory."
"Braddock was always blind," John scoffed as he rubbed his good hand over his jaw, "but not because he didn't have enough eyes on the ground. You can't help a man who refuses to see." Kicking out at nothing John cursed, "Dammit it all, this is why he should have waited at Cumberland. To charge forth without a full understanding of…"
"There's nothing that can be done about that now, John," Daniel Morgan offered, "And as our list of Native allies grows thin, I'm not sure any of us will survive this foolhardy plan of his - to think he could move hundreds of cannon up and over these ridges without alerting the French to his movements?" Shaking his head, he let out a derisive laugh, "I'm surprised Gage was even able to get this far."
"Well Braddock won't if we don't do something about it," hissed Daniel Boone. "The French will be damned before they let Braddock reinforce Gage."
"Aye," John Fraser agreed, "But one must first find Colonel Gage…we can't go off informing Braddock of what has transpired without knowing the full extent of the danger." Nodding seriously at Wyatt he apologized, "I'm sorry, son…I know you are anxious to get your wife, but if it was the French who attacked these troops, our problems may be one in the same...and our objective, I fear, might be met with common purpose."
"It's battle, then." Daniel Morgan quipped as he eagerly rubbed his hands together.
"It appears so." John Fraser replied seriously as he stared at the bodies now choking the river, "We must be cautious, we have not just the French and their allies to be wary of…but our men who will be on high alert after such a devastation as this." Nodding at his companions, he urged them forward, "Come, let's see if we can find a place to cross. If we're about to stumble upon a firefight, I'd rather be further from the French than nearer. That is, of course, supposing that they are still on this side of the river."
Hardly complaining with that logic, Wyatt followed John Fraser's lead as he wound them along the edge of the wide, expansive river until, at last, they reached a stretch of gentle rapids with rocks jutting out here and there allowing all of them to easily cross without getting so much as a drop of water on them. Now that the sun had pretty much set, the temperature was falling rapidly and hypothermia was definitely not something he wanted to add to their list of troubles.
They hadn't ventured far, maybe only a mile or two when they came upon a scene of total chaos and devastation. Dead British soldiers were sprawled across the forest floor, many of them, Wyatt noted with alarm, missing their scalps. Wounded men were crawling on their stomachs, desperate to get to safety, while others ran in confused circles, trying to find their way in the dark forest.
"Whoa there!" John Fraser called to a running soldier even as musket fire cracked overhead, "What's happened?"
"Am…ambush, sir," came the young soldier's reply. Turning, he raised a shaking hand and pointed as he cried, "There…just across the river!"
At that, Wyatt started for the river, his determination to get Lucy the hell out of harm's way overriding any sense of danger he had for himself. Diving his hand into his coat, he gripped his .45, only to have it wrenched right back out again by Rufus who was jogging close behind him. "What the hell do you think you are doing?" he hissed. "Are you out of your damn mind?"
"Lucy is right across the damn river, Rufus." Wyatt gritted out meaningfully, "You think I'm just going to stand around here and…
"Look around you, Wyatt." he spat out, "You think you can just waltz across and ask the French to just give her back? There's got to be at least 50 dead men here…."
"All the more reason to get her the hell out of there," he spat back before reminding Rufus with annoyance, "Lucy is in trouble."
Ducking his head down as a musket ball slammed into a tree in front of them, Rufus cursed, " Lucy's in trouble? What about us ? Pretty damn sure no one's shooting at her right now!"
"What?!"
"She's with the French," Rufus sneered, "that's a good thing, right?" But as Wyatt slowly turned to stare hard at him, Rufus stammered, "I…I mean, obviously it's not good that she's with the French, but in this case…" he trailed off awkwardly before concluding, "I'm sure she's fine…a hell of a lot better than we are, anyway," he added as another volley of musket fire exploded into the trees in front of them.
"There's only one way to find out." Wyatt replied grimly, pulling his .45 out of his jacket as he made his way down the hill. He hadn't managed to get far, only a few yards before two panicked, ragged men nearly bowled him over in their attempt to flee the continuing barrage of musket fire from across the river.
Wet and shaking from the cold, the men stared up at Wyatt looking absolutely terrified. Raising their hands in surrender they pleaded, "Ple…please….please don't kill us…."
Wyatt gaped at the men in confusion until the impact of a musket ball exploded at their feet, showering dirt and wood upon them as they whimpered and scrambled for cover. "Go, go!" Wyatt directed urging them to safety as a line of French soldiers began making their way across the river.
Gripping the coat of the smallest man who had stumbled to the ground, Wyatt pulled him to his feet and threw him forward, taking careful aim behind him as he fired into the oncoming assault. "We got company!" Wyatt shouted in warning as he raced towards a cowering Rufus. "Go," he yelled to his friend, tossing the two panicked men towards him, "Get the hell out of here!"
"Where the hell am I supposed to go?" Rufus exclaimed.
"Gage is calling a retreat," Boone replied breathlessly pointing in the distance to a tall red-coated colonel on horseback. "There's a homestead not too far from here where we can regroup."
"Not going to do us much good if these assholes follow us there," Wyatt observed wryly, nodding to the French soldiers wading into the river.
"Aye," Boone agreed, "But if they make it to the homestead, they'll have to contend with our cannon…I daresay it will dissuade them."
Wyatt cast another look at the oncoming French soldiers and took in the chaos surrounding him - British soldiers and their Native allies racing to the safety of the woods. He didn't want to admit it, hell, he didn't even want to think it…but he knew both Rufus was right. Without a plan…without any kind of idea of where Lucy was or how well she was guarded, he couldn't save her. Not on his own. Swallowing his disappointment and frustration even as his gaze was fixed on the far shore, he gritted out, "What do you need me to do?"
Under the loud commands of Daniel Morgan's leadership, the confused and injured British soldiers staggered their way through the thick brush, dodging explosions of musket balls, as they desperately moved away from the river.
While their companions might have been anxious to seek out a place of refuge, Wyatt was angry…angry that he hadn't just charged into the fray and gotten to Lucy when he had the chance. Now every step he took away from her might as well have been a mile for as much as it killed him to do it. He had been so damn close….so close…and yet, now? Now, now more than ever he was terrified he was never going to see her again.
He had no idea how far they had gone before the broken down gates of an old homestead loomed into view. Though the place was clearly deserted, there was a small cabin, a barn and a good number of outbuildings that would provide shelter enough for the wounded. Colonel Gage. for his part, had already declared that no one was to leave the camp and was already setting up a perimeter, establishing guards at every possible angle as if in expectation for another deadly ambush.
An hour passed, maybe more, before the whole of the yard was filled with soldiers…some wounded…some not, desperately warming themselves by the many campfires dotting the scene. "Damn fools." Wyatt hissed in annoyance as he stared hard across the illuminated field.
"You can't blame them, Wyatt." Rufus whispered back to him, "It's freezing out here."
"If those French are looking to finish them off…" Wyatt began, but he stopped, halfway wishing they would come…just so he could beat the shit out of each and every last one of them. As it was, despite his comment, Wyatt highly doubted the French would venture far from their own campfires tonight. Rufus was right, it was freezing…and while Colonel Gage had presented them with a soft target what with the many glowing beacons dotted across the field, he doubted even the French would be that eager to take such a cheap shot.
Though, he had to admit, it hadn't stopped them before.
Whether it was his wedding day or dropping in on them in the middle of a damn rain storm, the French had certainly timed their attacks to when he least expected it…so could he really say for certain they wouldn't try to finish them off tonight? No. But there was no way in hell he was going to admit that to Rufus.
So when his friend looked up at him in concern, waiting for him to finish his frustrated word of warning, Wyatt shook his head and shrugged it off, "You're probably right," he sighed, "we probably won't see them any more tonight."
That admittance however, stung …because the whole reason they had trekked all over the damn woods in the first place, was to save Lucy…and now? Now he was stuck waiting for who the hell knew what. Pushing off the ground in frustration, he stalked away, meandering his way to the edge of camp, his eyes fixed on that one point in the distance where Lucy might be huddled…waiting for him.
He had no idea how long he stood there, gazing across the dark forest to some unknown point when Daniel Morgan jogged up beside him, "There you are, been looking for you this past hour." As Wyatt turned to face him, he nodded towards the supply wagons, "John is taking himself and the worst of the injured off to find Braddock…"
"He's leaving?" Wyatt exclaimed, "I thought Gage said…"
"We haven't got enough medical supplies to treat those men…You know how John is," Morgan scoffed, "Convinced he'd be more of a burden here than a help….but between you and me," he offered with a hushed voice, "I do believe he's anxious to resolve this issue with our allies. No one is better than he to do it…and if he can talk some sense into Braddock, well, there might be a chance for these lads yet," he added with a nod towards the camp.
"You don't think they stand a chance, do you?" Wyatt asked quietly.
"If we are abandoned by our friends because of Braddock's short-sightedness…then I worry for our lot, yes." Morgan admitted with a sigh. "But, those that remain," he said as he nodded towards the camp, "are a formidable bunch. Mohawk," he explained with a nod, "Not a tribe you'd want to cross." Slapping Wyatt on the back, he pivoted, "That, however, is not why I've come a looking for you…you want to save that wife of yours? Well then," Morgan added at Wyatt's look of sudden interest, "you'll be wanting to meet a few lads. Follow me."
Brimming with curiosity and hope, Wyatt followed Daniel Morgan to the barn where scores of wounded men were laid out on musty piles of straw and leaves as fellow soldiers swiftly attended to them. Rufus, too, was offering his hand, supplying men with water and bits of dried beef. Upon seeing Wyatt, however, he made his way towards his friend, easing his way over the litany of soldiers sprawled across the barn floor. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Don't know," Wyatt replied with a shrug, but just as those words left his lips, Daniel Morgan hurriedly waved him over to a huddled group of men, two of whom Wyatt immediately recognized as the men who had nearly bowled him over when he had attempted to cross the river.
"This here is Issac Daniels and this gentleman here is Charles Gardner - missionaries" Morgan explained as he took a seat on an overturned barrel, pointing to the two men Wyatt had recognized. "And over here," Morgan continued, nodding towards two wounded soldiers, "are Private Kilroy and Sergeant Weems,…the only survivors of that initial ambush," he added meaningfully.
Intrigued, Wyatt cast a sideways glance towards Daniel Morgan, not quite understanding what this had to do with saving Lucy, but desperate enough to trust it did. Meeting his eye, Morgan nodded at Wyatt again, wordlessly imploring him to sit…so, Wyatt sat…and noted as he did so that Private Kilroy was deathly pale and convulsing as he desperately gripped at an arm that was no longer there.
Clearing his throat, Daniel Morgan began, "I know you've been through a lot lads and I know you don't want to go on reliving the horrors you faced this night, but could you please tell him, what you told me?"
Grimacing, Private Kilroy shakily lifted himself up onto his elbow. "We…we was just following orders, sir," he breathed unsteadily, "We was building a bridge to navigate the bog, here" he explained, "when suddenly we hear this gun shot. The Captain, he…he told us we was to stop our work and go investigate."
"A gunshot?" Wyatt asked, confused. "What…you heard a gunshot before you were ambushed?" As the soldiers nodded at him, he looked to Daniel Morgan who again, wordlessly wordlessly urged him to continue, but Wyatt could not make any sense of it. "Why? The French wouldn't have just announced their position like that. Especially if they were looking for an ambush."
"It wouldn't be the best strategy, no,"agreed Daniel Morgan who took out his flask and took a quick sip of its contents. "Perhaps our new missionary friends can shed some light on that mystery," he offered, before nodding at the two of them meaningfully, "gentlemen?"
Casting uneasy glances at one another the two men, gauntly thin and trembling, began weaving their tale, all about how they had been captured by a "murdering horde of savages" and made to live amongst a tribe until one day, they made a daring escape…and well, Wyatt was losing his patience. "What the hell does that have to do with what happened tonight?" he spat out angrily.
They shrank back at Wyatt's remonstrance, looking as if they regretted saying anything at all when Daniel Morgan pressed them again, "You have to understand lads, he has reason to be eager. Please, the gunshot…tell him…"
"Well, we didn't exactly see…" Isaac began.
"No, but she did make a grab for the gun…"
"She?" Wyatt started, sitting up, 'Who?" The men stared back at him but said nothing more. Irritated, Wyatt spat out more forcefully, looking at all the men now, "The gunshot," Wyatt pressed more forcefully, "Who fired it?"
"Don't rightly know, sir," piped up Sergeant Weems. "We didn't see no one with guns when we arrived at that river bank. In truth, we didn't see anything amiss…"
"The Captain did though," Private Kilroy muttered weakly as he collapsed pale and shaking onto the straw pallet.
"I told him it was just a romp, but did he listen to me?" the sergeant spat out, "No, he walked straight over there and…"
"He was a good man," the pale soldier murmured with a shaky nod, "he did what he thought was right."
"And what was right was getting us all killed," the sergeant spat out angrily, "And for what? Nothing but a French trollop," he spat out, nodding towards the missionaries. "He should have let them be…then he might not have had his head blown clean off for meddling in other people's affairs."
Alarmed, Wyatt stared between the men, desperately trying to process the snippets of narrative, "What the hell do you mean by "romp"? he asked, dreading the answer. "What did you see?"
Unbothered, the sergeant shrugged, "Nothing we should have gotten worked up about…should've just minded our own business…" but as Wyatt argued for him to be more explicit, the soldier sighed, "Like I said, when we came upon the river yonder, we didn't see no cause for any alarm…just a putain getting herself a green gown from a poilu," he added with a smirk and wink.
Wyatt stared back at the sergeant completely at a loss, something Daniel Morgan obviously noticed because after a long pause, he cleared his throat and explained, "An apparent tryst…"
"Sex?" Rufus offered, but at Wyatt's sharp and horrified look, he shrunk back and said nothing more.
Wyatt felt as if every last bit of oxygen had been sucked out of his lungs. He had, of course, suspected that Lucy had probably already been assaulted, but upon hearing it…knowing that it had actually…"What did she look like?" Wyatt gritted out, his eyes clenched shut, praying against all odds that his fears were unfounded. "The woman…" he repeated desperately, "what did she look like?"
"Well, " the sergeant chuckled, "I don't rightly know…I wasn't looking at her face, if you understand my meaning." Wyatt stared hard at the soldier, not finding any humor in the situation at all, something that seemed to both confuse and amuse the sergeant as he adjusted the bloodied rag over his eye. "Here now," he pressed "I'm just having a bit of fun is all."
"So what you're saying is the lady didn't appear to be…in any danger?" Daniel Morgan ventured, casting a wary glance towards a still livid looking Wyatt.
Shaking his head, the sergeant replied, "No…I didn't see any cause for alarm…the lady certainly didn't seem to object too much to the Frenchman's ministrations," he chuckled as he mused, "she was laid out right beneath him…"
"Yes, she did. You didn't see. You left…went back to report to Gage before…ugh…before the Captain intervened," the pale soldier interrupted, shakily lifting his head from the hay bale. "She was fighting against him something fierce…and what's more," the soldier replied as he collapsed back onto his makeshift bed, "she wasn't French….she was English."
Paling, Wyatt started forward, "How do you know? Did…did she say something? Please," he pleaded desperately when the soldier merely stared back at him, "they…they have my wife."
Unable to find the strength to sit up again, the soldier, instead, turned his head to more fully face Wyatt who was crouched down beside him looking absolutely beside himself with concern. Swallowing hard, the soldier replied in a shaky voice, "She had dark hair to her shoulders, sir…
That pronouncement had barely left the soldier's chapped and bleeding lips then Wyatt collapsed to his knees, burying in his face in his hands. "Lucy…" he moaned through a strangled sob, at once hating himself for failing her so completely and despising the French for what they had done.
"Now now," Daniel Morgan consoled, "It is not certain that she was the lady in question. We must not lose our heads with speculation. Why there could be plenty of…"
"…we all thought she was French," the pale soldier continued apologetically, his eyes totally fixed on Wyatt's helpless figure, "just…just a woman from the camp…until…until Captain Philips he…he ordered the Frenchman to let her go and she…she spoke English then sir…demanded that the Frenchman let her go…and then sir, " the soldier began desperately trying to sit up again, "sir, we tried to get her to come with us, we did…but…but then…"
"The ambush." Rufus murmured quietly, his eyes filled with concern as he fixed his gaze on Wyatt.
"Aye," the soldier sighed, collapsing back onto his makeshift bed.
"And this? This is what prompted the attack upon you all?" Daniel Morgan asked earnestly. "When this Captain Phillips intervened on the lady's behalf? You said," he began, turning to the sergeant, "that you saw nothing amiss. There were no other soldiers? No indication that danger was near?"
"Not a soul, sir," the sergeant replied. "As I said, all would have been well if Phillips would have just let that Frenchman have his bit of fun…"
"You son of…" Wyatt gritted out, pulling a fist back to bloody his other eye, when Daniel Morgan gripped his arm.
"Easy now, lad." he soothed, "You save that wrath for the French." As Wyatt lowered his arm and stared hard at the soldier, Morgan added, "As for you sergeant, you'd do well to remember whose uniform you wear and what you represent. A lady's honor is not to be impugned…even by word."
"Impugned?" The sergeant gasped, offended. "You heard what them missionaries said," he challenged pointing to the two men who looked horribly uneasy, "tell him," he pressed, "tell this gent what you told us…"
As Wyatt turned to face them, his face shining with fury, Isaac twisted his hands together and began, "We…we only mentioned that the lady in question seemed to be…uh….well-acquainted with the gentleman."
"What the hell do you mean by that?" Wyatt snarled.
"Now…now, sir…" Charles offered, "You must not blame us for judging on what we observed."
"And just what the hell did you 'observe'?" Wyatt challenged.
"Only that the gentleman…a major, I believe, seemed to be very familiar with the lady…and she, him." Issac explained nervously. "He…uh…embraced her often…and she, well…she rattled off to him in French in such a way to make it clear they were previously acquainted…and…uh…when she struggled with the trail…"
"He placed her with him on his horse…" Charles offered.
"Now now…initially she seemed angered by that," Issac conceded, "but…after a while she came to…to…permit him to place his hands on her thus," he added, hesitatingly pressing his own hands against his torso and thigh. "Well, generally I thought perhaps they had maybe had a lovers spat…that now, after sweet nothings were exchanged…all was at peace between them."
"Aye, I thought so too," Charles agreed, "she even permitted the gentleman to lay kisses her upon the neck and breast as they rode together."
"You see?" the sergeant snarled, "that lady was nothing but a whore from the French camp and managed to get 100 of His Majesty's men murdered tonight!"
"You watch your tone, sir," Daniel Morgan gritted out meaningfully, gripping Wyatt's arm. "You have given no evidence to suggest the woman in question was a willing participant in tonight's events. On the contrary, if she was indeed, the one who fired off that pistol, she was giving you fair warning."
"Fair warning when that shot is why we were put in harm's way to begin with?" The sergeant decried as he adjusted the bandage around his head. "No, no sir…if she did pop off that shot, she as much as lured us into harm's way. So forgive me, sir, if I do not sympathize with her plight. I stand by what I said before, not one soldier would have been killed if Phillips would have just let that Frenchman pluck…"
Not waiting for him to finish, Wyatt dove for the soldier, absolutely seething with rage only to be held back this time by both Daniel Morgan and Rufus. "Steady lad, steady…" Morgan urged to Wyatt before turning to the soldier with anger, "One more comment like that and I may just lose my grip."
"I just said what I saw." the sergeant retorted, recoiling slightly from Wyatt, "It's not my fault he lost track of his wife."
True to his word, Morgan let loose his grip on Wyatt's arm which promptly collided with the sergeant's face. Punching that sonofabitch, however, didn't carry with it any sort of satisfaction…because he was right, wasn't he? This was his fault. He had lost her. He had failed in the only damn job he had since they landed in this century - to keep her safe. After Jessica, he never thought he'd ever be in this position again. He had failed as a husband so miserably the first time, he had vowed to never even allow himself a second chance. Yet now, even as a fake husband…it was the same devastating scenario. Lucy had disappeared off the side of that lonely road because he hadn't been there to stop them…and now…
Wyatt swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to keep from revisting his breakfast. The very idea of her being subjected to…
With hands shaking with fury, he slowly rose to his feet, every eye turned to him in concern as he stalked away from the huddled soldiers. He would kill them. He would kill them all. He would - he did not give a damn. Gripping onto his own pistol, he turned on his heel and made to run off towards the river but was quickly seized by Daniel Morgan, "Where the hell do you think you're off to?"
"Where do you think?" Wyatt snarled, pointing towards a speck of light in the darkness ahead of them, "I'm going to get Lucy the hell out of there."
"Ha! You run over there now and you will only succeed in getting yourself killed." Morgan reasoned as Wyatt angrily stalked away from them.
"I don't give a damn." Wyatt snapped back, before Rufus' voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
"I do."
He hadn't realized Rufus had followed Morgan, yet there he was, spinning his hat in his hands, looking at Wyatt with a mixture of sympathy and concern. Besides John Fraser, Rufus was the only one who fully understood why saving Lucy was so damn important to him…which was why he couldn't help but feel betrayed by his insistence that he stay.
"You of all people ought to know why I can't just stand by while…"
"I know." Rufus replied with a nod of his head, "I know you want to save her Wyatt…and I know this isn't easy for you…but dammit Wyatt, he's right, if you rush over there now you're only going to get yourself killed. You can't take on the whole damn French army by yourself."
"I did it before…" Wyatt replied with a scoff.
"They're not going to make that same mistake twice." Rufus answered in a hushed voice. "If they really took her to get to you…man, you'll be falling right into their trap."
"Didn't you hear what they just…"
"Wyatt, we don't know that that was Lucy…" he urged, even as the Delta Force soldier let out a derisive laugh and stalked away from him, "...we don't, Wyatt," he maintained. "And even if it was, there's not a lot you can do to change what happened to her, man."
"He's right," Daniel Morgan agreed with a nod, "These armies are not completely devoid of women, after all. Why," he said pointing towards a lean-to next to a barn where a small group of women were shredding bits of cloth for bandages, "Gage has 10 women in his unit for cooking, cleaning…and Braddock, why, I can't tell you how many he has in his employ."
"You're not trying to ease his mind telling him about Braddock's women, are you?" Daniel Boone's voice called out from the shadows. Startling with surprise, the huddled group parted to allow Boone to sidle up next to them. "Evening, gents…what have you all been up to?"
"Us? What about you?" Morgan challenged, casting a wary glance to where Colonel Gage was camped, "You've been gone this last hour."
Boone shot a glance towards Gage and shrugged, "I'll tell you later," turning to Wyatt more fully he crossed his arms over his chest and challenged, "now you tell me, what's got you riled? Morgan here is right - these Army units aren't without the gentler sex…though, I admit, I can't speak for the French, but Braddock…"
"What's the matter with Braddock?" Rufus asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Exchanging a smirk with Boone, Daniel Morgan chuckled, "Let's just say, Braddock likes his women like he likes his wine…plentiful." Seeing Wyatt's rub a rough hand over his face, Morgan added bracingly, "Oh come now, you know how these Army men are…"
"Aye!" Boone concurred, "It's not unheard of for some of the soldiers to...wander off with some of the ladies of the camp…these rumors are hardly worth getting worked up over when it could very well be that your wife's virtue is still very much intact."
Wyatt, however, could not help but get worked up over it. He had seen with his own two eyes after all, how they pawed at her when they first landed in this century. He had seen her reception in that damn fort and how no one…no one but that French asshole treated her with any kind of dignity. For him to trust now that Lucy was safe from abuse and harassment just because she probably wasn't the only woman in the group?
No. Hell no.
Wyatt stared hard at them, furious that they could be so infuriatingly calm after everything they had just heard, "You have got to be out of your damn mind if you think I'm going to sit here and do nothing…"
"I wouldn't say nothing," Daniel Boone remarked with another smirk. "You can hardly plan on going after the French with naught but a pistol and a knife, now can you?" As Wyatt looked back at him in confusion, Daniel Boone smiled as he cast another glance towards Gage's tent. Leaning forward, he explained in a lowered voice, "Gage was worrying himself so over the French position - terrified they might regroup and assault them again before daybreak…so I took the liberty to offer my services to the good Colonel in the hopes that I might ease his mind."
"And?" Wyatt and Daniel Morgan asked in unison.
"Well, good news is, even with the casualties Gage here sustained, we outnumber them 3 to 1. Bad news?" he offered with a shrug, "it appears the French are preparing themselves for another assault. They've got scouts scouring that entire side of the river there…
"Lucy?" Wyatt breathed out anxiously, "Did you see Lucy?"
"I didn't, but I wasn't exactly in a position to search the camp," he replied, offering up his splintered and bleeding hands as explanation. "Just a bird's eye view, you see…and truly, I was more concerned with the soldiers…and not getting caught."
"So we get them before they hit us." Daniel Morgan concluded simply. "Let them come within range of the cannons, I say, and blow them all to hell."
"The French are too smart for that," Daniel Boone dismissed, "otherwise they would have already been here…no…they're up to something, though I don't rightly know what. Seemed they were looking for something…perhaps a way to cross the river…"
"Fools only have to go a half a mile up yonder," Daniel Morgan observed with a scoff, "isn't that where the falls are? Great stretch of rocks…"
"Aye," Boone mused, before shrugging with a dismissive sigh, "Well, ta'int no matter anyhow…I doubt Gage will want to re-engage with them tonight anyhow. He's more apt to lick his wounds and try not to freeze to death…not that I blame him, I know I am more than ready to cozy myself up to a fire…
"Fire…" Wyatt murmured as his eyes darted around the illuminated campsite.
"Not the most ideal situation," Morgan observed to Boone, "though I suppose in terms of vulnerability we're evenly matched," he said with a nod towards a soft orange glow in the distance.
"Except the French have a bit more gumption than we do, I'm afraid," Boone replied, "Why anybody would want to pick a fight on a night like this is beyond me."
I, for one, don't give a damn, " Morgan replied, "I'll sleep with my damn musket loaded and ready if it means I can settle down next to a fire and keep warm."
"There's another way…" Wyatt gasped as he scrambled towards the brightly lit camp. "We don't have to advertise our position like this," turning to face them with an almost boyish eagerness, he offered, "You said we outnumbered the French 3 to 1?" He asked Boone who nodded in confusion, "What if Gage could keep the bulk of his army here undetected, and a team…a small unit snuck across the river and gave the French a bit of their own medicine?"
"And how do you propose we do that?" Boone asked incredulously.
Casting a meaningful glance at Rufus, Wyatt replied with a nod, "We dig."
The night was bitterly cold. An eerie stillness had long since replaced the explosive sounds of battle, but it was that stillness that was causing Lucy so much anxiety as she desperately sought to follow Jane Fraser's lead through the forested hills.
Despite having escaped hours before, they hadn't actually gone terribly far. As Jane had surmised early on, the French were protected on their flanks by their Native allies, hidden out of sight in the woods, watching for any hint of a counter assault by the British. To avoid capture, therefore, Lucy and Jane had to seek out another trail that would offer them a wide berth around the French force all while striving to keep out of sight.
That proved to be nearly impossible as the woods were soon covered with soldiers - French and Indian - undoubtedly searching for them in the aftermath of the battle. Lucy and Jane hid shivering under thick underbrush, holding their breaths as search party after search party combed the trails looking for them.
The quiet, therefore, should have been reassuring…but it wasn't. For Lucy, it seemed like the calm before the storm - a momentary reprieve to lull them into a false sense of security before all hell was to break loose again.
"Watch your step here," Jane whispered, "It's a might slick."
Though it had been hours, Lucy was still reeling from the revelation that the woman whom she had befriended…the woman who had saved her life was the same woman whose reappearance she had been both anticipating and dreading. Anticipating for what it meant for John…and for history…and dreading for what it would mean to Mary.
Mary Fraser would, of course, be devastated once it became clear that she was not so much a wife to John Fraser as she was a "place holder. " Lucy, of course, could not blame John or Jane for ultimately reconciling, but she was filled with concern over what Jane's sudden reappearance would do to Mary. The shock of being relegated from beloved wife to something more along the lines of a mistress would, Lucy was sure, break her friend's heart.
Jane, too, would have her own shock to deal with upon arriving home…at least, Lucy supposed she would. She had no idea how much Jane knew…or didn't know about John's present circumstances and though she was brimming with curiosity, she couldn't bring herself to broach the subject. She didn't want to be the bearer of that news, but then again, Lucy felt an overwhelming pang of guilt considering how hurt Jane might feel, coming home after all that she suffered, to find that she had been replaced…with zero warning.
Historically, Jane had taken refuge at a neighbor's home who then sent word to John that Jane was alive and informed him they would be bringing her the rest of the way home by carriage. That, however, had changed. Even if the Gibbs' were the neighbors in question, they had been killed before they had been able to safely deliver her home. Lucy had no idea how much the Gibbs' had told her or if they even had time…all she did know was that Jane hadn't even mentioned John directly since they had officially met…not even when Lucy had told her, somewhere in her stammered reply after their stunning introduction, that she knew of her because John had been so good to let them live on a cabin on his land.
"Let's rest a bit," Jane whispered after climbing a particularly steep grade. "That leg of yours is probably smarting something fierce." Leaning forward slightly she nodded in acknowledgement, "Aye, your ankle is swollen. No fear," she encouraged with a smile and a bracing pat of her hand, "when we get back to the homestead, Mrs. Poe will be able to mend you in no time at all."
Lucy's breath hitched in her throat at the mention of the housekeeper, the first allusion Jane had made to anyone from her old home. Feeling all of the awkwardness of the situation, Lucy nodded and began tentatively, "Yes… is um…very kind."
"Kind?" Jane scoffed, "We must be speaking of two different persons, I nary would describe Mrs. Elspeth Poe of being kind. Hard-working?" she suggested with a nod, "God-fearing? A right good cook and nurse…but kind? No…though I must admit even she has her moments."
Lucy was about to offer a neutral response…not comfortable wading too much into what would inevitably be an awkward conversation when Jane observed with a self-deprecating laugh, "I suppose it will come as a great shock to Mrs. Poe to see me alive…John too." Looking down at her tattered clothes and haggard appearance, she chuckled, "Though perhaps not as well as I was when they last set eyes on me…I've seen better days, to be sure."
Ignoring the horrible urge to confess to Jane that John had remarried, Lucy forced a smile and offered a self-deprecating chuckle of her own, "Yes…we both have. What I'd give for a hot bath…"
"Oh, mercy, I haven't had one of those in ages." Jane admitted with a grunt as she leaned against a large boulder. "Not since before I was taken." Quieting, Jane frowned before adding with a faltering whisper, "It's been nigh 18 months since I've seen my home."
Again, Lucy was struck with an overwhelming urge to give Jane fair warning that John had remarried….had moved on…even though she knew, he hadn't really moved on…just like Wyatt had never and would never really move on from Jessica.
True love and all that.
Sighing, Lucy hugged her arms around her knees and murmured, "It must have been very hard for you…"
"Aye," Jane acknowledged with a nod, her eyes fixed on her wringing hands, "though sometimes I think death would have been the more merciful fate - but the good Lord saw fit to deliver me." Sniffing she added, "I was with child, you know? When I was taken to live among that tribe in the Ohio. A beautiful baby, he was," she recalled in a quavering voice, "but alas, too good for this world."
"I'm…I'm so sorry," Lucy began but Jane dismissed her away, even as she blinked tears from her eyes.
"It is enough to know he didn't suffer his sickness long," she replied. "I am grateful to God for that." Shaking her head, she continued, "I stayed busy…worked among the people of the tribe…stayed in their good graces as it were until one day," she sighed, "I chanced to escape and made my way towards home. I never believed I would get this far, but I did not want to die as a captive." Letting out a chuckle, she recalled, "When I finally found myself on threshold of my dear friends' the Gibbs…I allowed myself to hope, for the first time since I had been taken, that I would see my husband again."
"Jane…"
"I never would have believed I would be captured again after surviving so long in the wilderness on my own, but the Lord saw fit to see it done." She sought Lucy's frozen fingers and gave them a squeeze, "I believe I was meant to help you, dear…and you, me."
Gratefully clinging to Jane Fraser's calloused fingers, Lucy sat there, overwhelmed with guilt. Jane was not supposed to be here. She was supposed to be at home…with her husband. Yet once again, history had changed all because of their presence in 1754. John and Jane Fraser's future, their eight children…all hung in the balance, yet Lucy hadn't the faintest idea of how she would fix this.
Not on her own anyway.
Across the river, in the distance, she could see the faint orange glow of what had to be the English camp. Maybe, Lucy thought, if they could manage to make their way there, she and Jane could get an escort back to the farm…though Lucy had to admit, she was not exactly looking forward to a reunion that would prove so devastating for Mary.
What, however, would Jane feel upon returning home after such tremendous hardship only to find her husband taking comfort in the arms of another woman? How betrayed would Jane feel if she, Lucy, did not take the time to warn her of the awkward situation that awaited her when she finally made it home? After everything she had done, everything she had risked to save Lucy, how could she repay her by saying nothing about what awaited her when she made it home?
"Listen, Jane…" Lucy began but no sooner had she resolved to confess everything about John and Mary then she was suddenly hoisted up in the air, grabbed from behind by a pair of strong arms. Before her, she could see Jane struggling with her own captors…two Native Americans who were roughly tying her arms behind her back even as she desperately attempted to wriggle away from them.
Lucy kicked wildly out at nothing, knowing her efforts were fruitless, but determined to fight back regardless. It wasn't all in vain as her foot did make contact with what she imagined was someone's head, but that small victory was short-lived. In retaliation she was roughly tossed to the ground and bound…both her wrists and ankles chaffed by the coarse rope being tightly wound around them.
She hadn't really believed they would be lucky enough to escape. These woods were crawling with French allies, after all and besides that, her injured leg and impractical clothing made traversing through the muck and the mud of these ridges and hills practically impossible. Their tracks could easily be discerned and followed, their pace - necessarily slow. Her one hope of finding refuge with the British forces she knew, was a long shot. The river, though somewhat shallow in places, was swollen and raging from the recent rains and if that weren't enough to make the crossing challenging enough, the unbearably cold temperatures sure as hell did. Just the thought of meandering into waist deep, ice cold water was enough to have Lucy happily agreeing to traverse back through the steep, mountainous hills until they could find a more practical place to cross.
Now, as she found herself being hoisted up and over the shoulder of a particularly large Shawnee, Lucy figured that escaping in the first place was somewhat foolish. She knew there was no practical way she could outrun the French and with Francis Coulon hellbent on getting revenge for the death of his family - revenge that unfortunately centered on her - she knew it wouldn't be long before her absence was discovered and rectified.
Then there was Marcel Toussaint. Twice thwarted and now undoubtedly sporting one hell of a bump on his head, Lucy figured that his wrath too, would be taken out on her. She had been lucky twice in escaping his unwanted advances, but she had no doubt that given a third opportunity, the Major would make absolutely sure her luck would run out.
With that horrifying thought in mind, Lucy felt her panic rise with every step made back towards the French encampment knowing that whatever fate awaited her there, it was guaranteed not to be pleasant.
Upon re-entering the camp, her fears were almost immediately realized.
Evidence of battle were everywhere. The French, though apparently successful in their ambush, were not without a few casualties; the entire camp was alive with activity, seeing to the injured and burying the dead. Francois Coulon stood in the midst of it all, proud and stoic, looking almost murderous as their small group approached.
Though Lucy struggled, she knew there was no use trying to escape again even as she found herself flung roughly onto the ground at Francois Coulon's feet. "You think after all of this, I would just let you go?" he snarled dangerously as he crouched down to look her in the eye. "No, madame, you will face justice."
Lucy swallowed hard, her eyes darting around the camp, half expecting to find a gallows ready and waiting for her, and though none was to be found, it didn't set her mind at ease. Given what she knew was Francois Coulon's insatiable need for revenge, Lucy understood, that he would never stop until he got justice for his nephew's murder.
One way or another, he would see her killed.
"You will be pleased to know that I sent word to my brother of your capture," he announced to her with a smirk. "When we rendezvous with him, you can look my brother in the eye and confess what you have done…and then, then you will burn for your crimes."
Lucy wanted to respond, wanted to tell him to go to hell…but the very idea of being burned alive was so horrifying she could do little more than whimper slightly as she was roughly dragged across the camp and tossed into the back of a wagon cart. From the little snippets of conversation she caught as she desperately sought to twist her way into a more comfortable position, she understood that the French were headed to a point further upstream near where Louis Coulon's forces were encamped. There, the French, it seemed, planned on launching another assault against the British as echoes of "nous les détruirons" sounded all around her as the soldiers readied to move out.
She was just beginning to worry over Jane Fraser's fate when she too was roughly tossed into the wagon next to her. Sporting a blackening eye, she nodded to Lucy as she maneuvered herself into a sitting position, "Well, this is an improvement…"
Ignoring her dismissive comment, Lucy shook her head, "What happened to you?"
"Nothing you need worry about." Jane declared with a shrug, "A small price to pay for giving them a wee bit of my mind."
"You should be careful," Lucy whispered urgently, "They will kill you. Francis Coulon…"
"If I was afraid of dying, I wouldn't have made my way in the wilderness alone. Don't you see?" Jane urged, "My life…it's of little consequence. To everyone I love, I'm already dead…so," she added with a self-deprecating laugh, "I figure I've got two choices - die fighting or die pleading…and I have to tell you, Lucy…I'm not one for pleading."
Lucy knew, of course, that Jane Fraser's life did matter. Eight children and countless offspring absolutely mattered and she wasn't about to sit by and watch anyone be erased like Amy had been if she could help it. As Jane inched over to her and began clandestinely loosening the ropes that bound Lucy's hands and feet, Lucy resolved to do whatever she could to fix things.
The French were after her, after all…not Jane Fraser.
"Listen," Lucy whispered desperately trying to keep her emotions in check, "don't worry about me - you get yourself free and leave. Leave, while you still can."
Jane Fraser's fingers stilled against the ropes. "What are you saying?" her quiet voice came in a disbelieving gasp.
Clenching her eyes shut, Lucy gritted out, "You shouldn't have to suffer because of me. Go and find John…find Wyatt…get away from here. You've been through enough without having to be captured all over again."
"I'm not one to leave anyone behind." Jane dismissed, her fingers working with more determination.
"You may not have a choice," Lucy murmured as Francois Coulon began shouting out orders to move out. Turning slightly towards Jane, Lucy hissed out a warning, "Promise me…promise me you'll escape the first chance you get."
"Lucy…"
"Please, Jane," Lucy pleaded. "If one of us needs to get out of here…it's you. You have so much to live for."
"And you don't?" Jane asked incredulously as the wagon jolted forward. "Don't you have your own husband to get back to?"
"I'm not m…" Lucy began, but quickly checked herself. Wyatt may have been her "husband" in the charade they were playing, but the reality of their true situation was becoming more and more apparent with every passing minute.
As much as Lucy wished to dismiss Wyatt's continued absence as a mere inconvenience, she knew it probably held deeper implications, the crux of it all being that she wasn't Jessica. For all the months they had been "married," Wyatt had gently and not so gently tried to remind her of that fact with almost every action. In those rare moments when it seemed that maybe something was happening between them…the moment would quickly pass and Wyatt…well, he would be more distant than ever.
She was certain Wyatt cared about her, certain his obligation to her as her teammate and friend would have sent him searching, but now…after so long with absolutely no sign of him…
Attempting to keep her voice steady, Lucy replied softly, "Wyatt will be just fine without me."
"Men are rarely as fine as they seem." Jane replied sagely. "They put up a false front, particularly when it comes to grieving…don't rightly know why…"
Lucy nodded, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips as she admitted glumly, "It's not that…it's just…our marriage? It's…he was married before…and…well, he…only married me because…"
"He didn't want to be alone?"
Lucy again offered Jane a soft smile and shook her head, "Not exactly. He wanted to protect me…"
"And you think that means you aren't dear to him?" Jane asked incredulously, "My dear," she urged, "Some men aren't explicit in words, but in deeds."
Exactly, Lucy scoffed inwardly…and Wyatt wasn't here, something she couldn't help but observe as bitterness and disappointment at his continued absence coupled with the anxiety she felt over her impending execution began to overwhelm her. "You don't understand," Lucy tried explaining, "Wyatt's job is to…protecting me is what he does. If he actually cared, he would have found me by now."
Jane sat quietly for a long while as the wagon jostled them to and fro…her own bounded hands clasped behind her back, gently tugging on the frayed ends of the course rope wound around Lucy's wrists. "I know of little of what you are feeling," she said quietly and Lucy, suddenly realizing her insensitivity, groaned.
"Oh Jane, listen…I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"
I don't know that I ever believed John started looking for me," she recalled thoughtfully. "I don't mean to slight John, you understand," she said with a slight chuckle, "it's just that in these parts, to hope…well, it is often foolhardy. I suppose a part of me always wanted to believe he hadn't given up hope that I was still alive, but…John knows too well what happens when…well," she sniffed, "let's just say I don't blame him. By all accounts I should have died that day."
Lucy swallowed hard, her mind wondering. How much did Jane Fraser know? Had the Gibbs' told her of John's remarriage before their deaths? Had they even had the chance? "Jane," Lucy began, absolutely not wanting to be the bearer of that news but feeling that it would be almost too cruel not to at least give her a head's up, "about John…he…he's…"
"He's remarried." Jane finished for her with a quiet dignity. I know."
"That…that must be…" Lucy began, her heart aching for both Mary and Jane Fraser. "I can't imagine what you must be feeling," she offered, but still Jane stayed silent.
And why wouldn't she?
The man she loved, the husband she had married, the man who was to be the father of their long-dead child had given up on her and found comfort and solace in the arms of another woman. No matter how much Lucy respected, admired and even sympathized with Mary Fraser, she couldn't help but feel for Jane. She had suffered through so much - forced to be a concubine, losing her child, trekking through the woods living on nothing but bark with only the thought of being reunited with John sustaining her...only to find out that he had moved on and she, she was supposed to be dead. Kicking herself for bringing up something so horrifically awkward, Lucy was about to change the subject if for any reason then to ease the tension that had sprung up between them when Jane quietly asked, "What sort of woman is she?"
"She…" Lucy began, but she hardly knew what to say. As much as she was outraged for Jane, to dismiss Mary was unthinkable - not just because she was her friend, but because she didn't deserve it. Mary Fraser was a kind, good-hearted, and patient woman who loved a man who thought he was free to love her in return...even if he didn't love her quite as much as he loved his first wife. To praise her, however, seemed a cruel torture that Jane didn't need or deserve.
"You know," Lucy said finally, deciding not to mention Mary at all, "he…he never stopped loving you. He…he talks about you all the time…how much he misses you, how much he regrets…losing you." Lucy nodded her head, slowly as her own situation got the best of her, "He might have remarried," she uttered with a quaking voice, "but his heart…it always belonged to you."
Jane nodded thoughtfully beside her, frowning with a quiet dignity before she murmured quietly, "She loves John?"
Fresh tears pooled in Lucy's eyes as she admitted in a voice thick with emotion, "Yes."
"Well then," Jane sighed heavily, "I am sorry for her…truly. I don't envy the loss she will most certainly feel and John...oh I pray his agony will be brief. He's a good man," she said defensively as if wanting to make it clear that he had done nothing wrong, "one who does not proper well on his own, so I cannot fault him for turning to another in his sorrow."
Shaking her head in incredulity, Lucy gaped at Jane Fraser, "How can you...how can you take this so well?"
"How could I do otherwise?" Jane asked incredulously, "The good Lord spared my life and delivered me out of the gaping mouth of Hell itself. To bellyache that my life is not the life I left behind? Why, how ungrateful would I be? You said yourself," she pressed meaningfully, "that John never stopped loving me, that his thoughts are often on me...why, it's gratifying to be sure," she offered, "but how do you suppose that makes his new bride feel? No," Jane said with a shake of her head, "I feel strongly for the lass and hope to be her friend...I don't wish John to suffer hard because he sought comfort when he lost me." Shaking her head she mused with gentle sigh, "It's all we want for the ones we love, isn't it?" For them to find a bit of peace and happiness in this life?"
Lucy nodded, too overwhelmed by her own emotions to do much else. All she wanted for Wyatt was for him to find happiness and peace...even though she knew that would mean she would lose him forever. Mary Fraser, too, would lose everything - her home, her husband, her happiness the moment John discovered Jane was alive. It wasn't just inevitable…it was history. Lucy knew it would happen, there was no question of maybe. Jane Fraser's return would send Mary Fraser packing causing her to be relegated from loving wife to placeholder in the blink of an eye. Jane's return would make it painfully clear to Mary Fraser that she was only ever second-best.
Lucy blinked away her tears, desperately trying to compose herself. It would do no good to cry over the Fraser's drama…and it wouldn't do her own heart any favors either. Unlike Mary, she knew before she even agreed to marry Wyatt what she was getting into. Mary, at least, had had the hope of a lifetime together with John…but she? She had never had such hope with Wyatt. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, not of love…at least not on his side anyway. So…there was no reason to be regretting him now. He had made it clear.
He could never .
And she…she should have listened…her heart should have listened.
But, she surmised, it didn't matter anyway. Her days, her hours…were numbered. The longer she stayed with the French, the more likely it was that she would be killed. She just hoped that if that happened, Wyatt and Rufus would still somehow find a way to make it home.
The wagon shuddered to a stop as they neared a bend in the river where there were rock formations enough to make the crossing relatively easy. One look from this vantage point and Lucy immediately understood why the French had chosen to attack the British from this angle; the land stretched out before them was higher and thickly covered in trees. If the French were to position themselves there, they could easily shoot down on the British encampment…not unlike what the British had done to the French at Jumonville Glen.
There was only one problem.
All around her troops were muttering and pointing to the spot where the British camp should have been, but instead of an orange glow illuminating the distant treeline, there was now nothing but darkness.
"You don't think they've left do you?" Jane gasped as she too caught the reason for the commotion.
"I…I don't know." Lucy shrugged, feeling at once relieved by the latest development and horrified by the inky abyss stretching out before them. Relief, because she had had enough slaughter to last a lifetime and horror because her last one great hope of escape had vanished. She couldn't outrun the French all the way back to John Fraser's…but she hoped that maybe…just maybe if she or Jane…preferably both of them could make it to the British camp, there was a chance. There, least, they would be safe….well, safer than they would be on their own. There, one of them could get the other help. There, there…she hoped against all hope, she might find Wyatt. But now?
Now that hope was gone and her fate, it seemed, was sealed.
"Hold still…I've almost got it." Jane murmured, her determined fingers working double time now to get Lucy's bonds loosened.
Lucy was grateful for her effort, but she knew it would all be in vain…especially now. Even if they were to somehow escape again, Francois Coulon would scour the entire Pennsylvania countryside five times over before he'd ever let her out of his sights again. Even now, as he looked through his field glasses, Lucy could hear him shouting commands to his men, Ne laissez pas ces femmes seules! But, Lucy noted…he was no longer looking towards the direction of the British camp. Instead, he was desperately searching the treelike behind them…
Something is happening…" Lucy murmured as she craned her neck to get a better idea of what that something was.
"I've almost got you out." Jane assured her. "Just a little more and I'll have it."
Lucy winced as the ropes pulled against her wrists, cutting into her skin, but kept her eyes trained on Francois Coulon who was motioning his men's attention to the woods. Even their guards had removed themselves and wandered away. Something had obviously caught their attention…something that she couldn't see…
"Got it!" Jane announced as the taut rope suddenly gave way.
Rubbing her chafed wrists, Lucy cautiously leaned forward so that she could peer around the large trees to her right, hoping she wouldn't draw the unwanted attention of the French soldiers. They, however, were far too focused on "...campfires," she muttered, her brow furrowed in confusion. "There," she pointed out to an equally curious Jane, "there, on the ridgeline."
Sure enough, dotting the ridge line above them, several tiny orange flames flickered against the dark night sky. "After the licking they got, surely our men aren't trying to outflank them?" she exclaimed. "They must know the French aren't so easily outmaneuvered?"
"I don't know." Lucy murmured as she shook her head, "It doesn't make any sense…unless the British saw the French moving out and moved to avoid another ambush…but why signal their position?"
With all of the French soldiers' attention focused on the woods above them, Lucy slowly rose to her feet, her mind a whirl as she tried to understand the reasoning behind such a move. It was a cold night…and yes, a fire was absolutely necessary to keep from freezing…but why move closer to the French? Why make it easier for them to launch another assault?
"Perhaps your man has finally come?" Jane Fraser offered as she too rose to her feet.
Lucy started forward at the suggestion, the thought of Wyatt just being beyond those trees making her anxious to race headlong into them, but after a moment's reflection, she paused. "No, it can't be Wyatt," she muttered with a thoughtful frown, suddenly remembering his admonishment to both her and Rufus all those months ago, "he would know better than to light a fire at night with the French looking for him."
"Unless," Jane offered meaningfully, "he wants to be found."
At that suggestion, Lucy stared after the small group of French soldiers now slowly snaking their way through the trees towards the campfires in the distance with a new light. Was Wyatt creating a distraction? He had done it before after all...at Duquesne. Was he trying to help her escape like he had then? Was this even him? Lucy looked to her left at where she had seen the last evidence of life on the far shore. A glowing beacon of light snuffed out so suddenly it seemed…but now? Now she wondered...
"Careful," Jane hissed as Lucy stepped forward, "Don't you be getting caught now, they'll string you up next time to be sure."
Hardly hearing her, Lucy watched as the last of the small group of French soldiers disappeared into the trees. Half tempted to yell out a warning, terrified that the freezing temperatures had made Wyatt reckless and desperate...if that was indeed who it was...Lucy found herself incapable of doing anything more than hold her breath and wait. Rooted to the spot, almost paralyzed with fear, she watched and waited, her eyes focused on the flickering campfires on the ridge above...until an eruption of musket fire rent the still night air and sent her stumbling backwards from shock and fright.
Blindly gripping Jane's hand, Lucy stared, horrified as an eruption of cheers sprang up among the French soldiers. Whatever their plan had been, Lucy surmised, the French had obviously executed it. Whoever had lit those fires had probably done so out of desperation, thinking the French soldiers wouldn't attack again until morning. Yet as she stood there, waiting for the reconnaissance troop to make their triumphant return, the woods above them stayed eerily silent and still…except for the flickering of those camp fires.
Her mind was a complete whirl of "what ifs" and "possibilities" when a sudden movement caught her eye. Racing out of the woods, as stealthy and swift as cheetahs, bare chested Natives, not French soldiers, with tomahawks raised, slammed into the French encampment. They made no sound as they hacked their way through the unsuspecting soldiers, barely pausing as they cut through their lines like a knife and disappeared into the woods behind them.
A general murmur sounded among the French troops, she could hear commands being shouted in French, imploring the men to stay calm, be vigilant as they turned in circles to defend themselves against another surprise attack. Lucy, too, had nervously positioned herself behind a tree, peering into the darkness where the Natives had disappeared when a volley of musket fire exploded from the trees behind her completely annihilated the soldiers standing closest to the hillside still dotted with camp fires...and then nothing.
It had seemed almost unreal, so quickly it had passed…and for a moment, she thought perhaps that the fighting was done, that the attack…whatever it was…had just been a warring party quickly passing through. The French soldiers, seemed to be no less confused than she was. All were staring off in different directions, peering through the trees with their muskets raised, waiting for an attack that didn't seem to be coming. She had no idea how long they stood there, collectively holding a breath, waiting for the proverbial axe to fall, when fall it did.
Another volley of musket fire, this time from their right, exploded into the camp, felling a few more French soldiers and injuring several others. Shouts of panic and alarm sounded as the French took up defensive positions, readying their own muskets for a counter-assault against their unseen assailants when suddenly a spine-chilling cry sounded from just behind them as the Natives exploded back into the camp. Terrified, Lucy fell to the ground, covering her head as the French rallied and sent a volley of musketfire into their attackers. Soldiers and Native Americans fell dead all around her, some shot with muskets at close range, others were hacked to death with knives or tomahawks, each lying on the ground with their fractured skulls and limbs oozing blood onto the frost-bitten forest floor.
Shrieking with fury, the war-painted Natives launched themselves onto the backs of French soldiers, cutting their throats with long jagged knives before gripping handfuls of their hair and slicing off their scalps. Horrified, Lucy attempted to crawl away but a wounded French soldier fell to the ground immediately in front of her, blocking her path. Nervously he fumbled for his flintlock pistol but no sooner had he had it in hand than he was straddled by an assailant who promptly drove a curved knife into his chest. Gasping in horror, Lucy scrambled backwards, slamming her eyes shut at the sight of the soldier squirming and screaming helplessly as his heart was being literally ripped out of his chest.
Absolutely terrified, Lucy ducked her head down again and lay on her stomach, desperately attempting to crawl out of sight and to safety. The ground however, was now completely littered with bodies, blood and gore. As she inched her way across the forest floor, dragging herself through the tumultuous landscape, she came face to face with horrors that had her dry heaving into her arm. Her dress, she was sure, was soaked with blood, her hands too, bore evidence of the macabre scene all around her, but she could not stop. This was a bloodbath and she was right in the middle of it.
She hadn't gone far when suddenly a pair of strong hands gripped her by the hair and pulled her to her knees, spitting out in hatred, "Oh no," came Francois Coulon's cruel voice, "I'll see you dead first." Instinctively she clutched at his hands desperately trying to wrench herself free even as he pulled hard on her hair and forced her head back, exposing her neck. She could feel the cool blade of the knife ghost against her arm as Francois Coulon lifted it to her neck, she felt it as he teased it against her jugular before he gritted out in hatred, "Pour Nicolas." Clenching her eyes shut, Lucy sucked in a breath waiting for the end to come...but it didn't. The tension on her hair suddenly went lax, and Francois Coulon's heavy body fell against her before tumbling off to the side as he groaned in agony. "Merde!" he gritted out, grasping his bloodied shoulder, "j'ai ete abattu!"
With shaking hands, Lucy snatched up the blade she had almost been murdered with and scrambled away, tripping over her skirts as she ducked and weaved her way through the fray, desperate to be anywhere but where she was. She scrambled over bodies and fallen logs as she raced her way down the sloping forest floor until her feet got tangled up in her skirts and brambles sending her careening down the hillside and into a boggy patch of ground next to the freezing river.
Panicked as she felt herself sinking, Lucy desperately clawed and kicked in an attempt to get to dryer land, but between her skirts, her injured leg, frozen limbs, and the unstable ground, she was having trouble succeeding. Driving the knife she still gripped in her hand into a gnarled tree root beside her, Lucy had just turned over onto her stomach to try to crawl out of the bog when Wyatt's voice, panicked and breathless, sounded just above her.
"Lucy!? Shit! Hang on Lucy, I'm coming!"
"Wyatt!?" she screamed back, surprised and relieved that he was coming to her aid, but no sooner had he begun to leap down the hillside towards her then Marcel Toussaint came bounding right behind him, a look of murderous rage on his face. "Look out!" Lucy warned with a shout, desperately attempting to kick herself free of her mucky prison but that only served to make her sink faster and deeper until suddenly, the thin layer of vegetation supporting her completely gave way and sent her plummeting into the icy water below.
The thunderous sounds of rushing water pounded in her ears as she desperately attempted to claw her way back to the surface. Every muscle in her body was taut from the cold, every limb seemed to be ensnared and entangled in tendrils of floating foliage and that, coupled with the weight of her dress, made every desperate effort to get her head back above water, practically impossible.
She was drowning.
This was her worst nightmare - she was back in that sinking car, desperately fighting to free herself, to breathe. She could hear Wyatt's warbled voice calling to her, could see shadows of movement beyond the murky depths above her, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not break free from her watery prison. Her lungs burned, her heart pounded, she fought and clawed and thrashed, fighting against the inevitable when she felt a hand seize the back of her dress and yank her up just enough to break through the surface allowing her enough time to gasp for a breath.
"Lucy," Wyatt gritted out, as he tried to pull her free, "give me your hand."
Obediently, Lucy grappled for his hand only to have it snatched away as Marcel seized Wyatt around the waist and pulled him away from the bog. 'Wy…" she garbled as she sank once more, but not before she grasped onto a large tree root jutting into the bog. Using that as leverage Lucy clawed herself back up to the surface, coughing and sputtering as she tried to drape her chest over it in a desperate attempt to stay above water.
Her success was short-lived however. Her hands, frozen and numb, faltered. Losing her grip, she sank back into the depths, too exhausted and cold to even attempt to fight her way to the surface again. But then suddenly she was being lifted, hauled out of the icy bog by a pair of strong arms. Coughing and gasping, Lucy turned and wrapped her arms around Wyatt's neck, practically sobbing as he dragged her back to the shore, "Th…thank you."
A chuckle sounded in her ear as a hand wrapped around her waist, "Ce n'etait rien, mon cher."
Gasping in horror, Lucy pushed away from a grinning Marcel who quickly twisted her arm behind her, gripping her to him as he pointed his pistol at her throat. "Un geste et elle meurt," he gritted out to a bruised Wyatt who was standing before them with his own gun raised.
"Get your damn hands off of her, asshole." he gritted out angrily.
"Voulez vous que je la remette?" he suggested, roughly hoisting Lucy back over the watery bog as she tried to wrench herself free. Seeing that, Wyatt started forward in a panic, which made Marcel chuckle, "Je ne le pensais pas."
"Wyatt..." Lucy gasped, struggling against Marcel's grip, "…please."
Wyatt winced as he lifted his gun, wanting nothing more than to do as Lucy asked and kill the sonofabitch, but finding himself unable to find a clean enough shot. A few months ago, sure...he might have risked it. But now? Now he could not bring himself to be that damn careless. 'I...I can't." he admitted.
"Ah," Marcel exclaimed in sudden understanding, "vous devez etre le mari." Nuzzling his face next to a shivering Lucy's he whispered lewdly, "Dois- je lui parler de nous?"
If Wyatt hadn't been pissed before, he sure as hell was now. After everything he had heard that night, after everything he had suspected...seeing the French soldier before him, wrap his arms tightly around Lucy's torso and whisper in her ear was about all he could stand. "What the hell did he say Lucy?" Wyatt gritted out angrily.
"Nothing." Lucy spat in disgust as she struggled against Marcel's hold on her.
"Rien?" Marcel exclaimed breathing in her ear again, "J'appellerais a peine ce qu'il y a entre nous rien."
"Say one more word, asshole…I dare you."
With a devilish gleam in his eye, Marcel pressed a slow kiss to Lucy's cheek, nudging his pistol even further into her neck as he mocked, "J'ai couche avec ta femme, asshole ."
Wyatt's eyes widened in sudden understanding, knowing as he did, that one French phrase. A cold fury such as he had never known before took over him as he watched the soldier nuzzle his face into Lucy's neck. "You sonofabitch" he growled but before he even had a chance to pull the trigger, Lucy was driving her heel into the French soldier's shin, causing him to double over in pain.
"Get. off. of. me.!" she gritted out, yanking her arm free and pushing him away.
Furious, Wyatt dove for Marcel, feeling a good ass-kicking would be more satisfying than killing him outright. Ramming him into a nearby tree, Wyatt laid into the French soldier, punching him squarely in the jaw repeatedly until Marcel kicked him away and drew out his knife, slashing at him wildly before diving for him and knocking Wyatt to the ground.
"No!" Lucy screeched scrambling on top of Marcel's back as he pinned Wyatt to the ground. Clawing at his face, she pulled his head back until he was falling backwards off of Wyatt and onto the unforgiving rocky ground.
No sooner had she made to move away, however, then Marcel scrambled to his knees and pulled her down on the ground with him, choking her. Lucy's hands flew to Marcel's clenched around her throat, clawed at them as she gasped for air, while he bellowed loudly, "Salope! Je vais te apprendre ta place!"
"You just don't learn, do you?" Wyatt snarled as he gripped the French soldier by the jacket and yanked him off of Lucy tossing him to the side, "I said…get your damn hands off my wife, asshole!" Helping her up, Wyatt ushered Lucy behind him as once again, Marcel dove for them brandishing his knife. This time, however, Wyatt stepped aside, grabbing his arm and twisting it backwards until it broke with a sickening crack. As Marcel cried out in pain, Wyatt wrenched the knife out of his hands and jabbed it into his ribs, twisting it hard before finally tossing the French soldier towards the icy river.
Lying on the ground gripping the gaping bloody hole in his side, Marcel coughed and spluttered easing himself up to sitting as Wyatt tossed the bloodied knife away and made his way towards Lucy who was soaking wet and freezing. With some hesitation Wyatt reached out and cupped her face, wiping away a smudge of dirt on her cheek as he asked breathlessly, "You…you okay?"
Unable to do little more than nod, Lucy bobbed her head, blinking away tears of relief as Wyatt gripped at her arm as if trying to convince himself that she was real, "Come on," he breathed out, casting a look of pure hatred towards the dying French soldier, "we need to get you the hell out of here."
No sooner had those words been spoken, however, then a volley of musket fire exploded into the trees beside them. "Shit." Wyatt gritted out grasping Lucy by the shoulders and pulling her down to the ground. Looking over his shoulder he could see a group of French soldiers emerging from the woods reloading their muskets as they helped their wounded comrade get to his feet. "Go, go!" Wyatt urged Lucy, encouraging her to run.
Gathering up her heavy, water laden skirts Lucy dashed forward only to duck for cover again as a bullet whizzed by her head and planted itself in the head of a British soldier. Grabbing her by the waist, Wyatt hauled her back up to stand, rushing towards the path to the French had taken to the campfires in the woods. They had only gone a few yards before a chance look behind him had Wyatt pulling Lucy down to the ground again as another volley of gunfire came pelting their way.
"I should have killed that asshole when I had the chance." Wyatt breathed out as he noted a bloodied Marcel limping determinedly towards them with a posse of other French soldiers trailing right behind. Gripping Lucy again, Wyatt pulled her back to her feet and ran a few more yards, positioning them behind a tree as he took out his .45 and took aim as they closed in. "Bonjour you sonofabitch," Wyatt muttered…but when he pulled the trigger on his .45…nothing happened. "What the…dammit!" he exclaimed as he opened the chamber. "Here," he said as he passed the gun to Lucy, "hold this."
"What…what am I supposed to do…"
"Just hold it." Wyatt gritted out as he fished out another clip from his pocket.
"Watch out!" Lucy exclaimed, pulling Wyatt down to the ground as Marcel's carefully aimed musket shot blew a hole in the tree they were hiding behind.
Staring at her incredulously for a moment, Wyatt nodded and breathed out a breathless, "Thanks," before taking his gun from her trembling hand and reloading it with a flourish. Gripping her arm, he pulled her behind him as backed away from the tree, his eyes scanning the confused scene before them for any sign of the French soldier when a familiar voice cried out to their right.
"What the hell…" Wyatt gasped, watching with an equally stunned Lucy as Rufus stood in the midst of a few injured British soldiers trying to defend them with nothing more than a frying pan. "Rufus! What the hell…I told you to stay by the damn fire!"
Wyatt started forward with Lucy, but Daniel Morgan was suddenly there, right beside them, discharging his pistol into a French soldier who lunged at them with his sword drawn, "Go," he assured Wyatt, "I've got her."
Nodding in thanks to him, Wyatt set off after Rufus, cursing as he ducked and maneuvered himself around a copse of trees until he could safely make his way over to where he was currently pinned, quickly dispatching the soldier with one shot. "Dammit, Rufus," Wyatt cursed, "what the hell are you doing down here, I told you…"
"You think I want to be down here in all of this mess?" Rufus spat out as he scrambled back to his feet, "right after you left with your British band of GI Joes a whole mess of French soldiers came running up into the woods and chased our asses down here." he explained as he followed after Wyatt, "We managed to take out a few of them, but…there were more of them than there was of us…watch out!" Rufus shouted, swinging his frying pan and knocking out a Native American who was poised to kill another one lying injured beneath the next tree.
As the stunned Indian stared back at him in confusion, Rufus urged, "Go, go on…get out of here! What?" he asked as the Native American continued to stare up at him, "Do you need an invitation or something? Get the hell out of here!" Obediently, the Native American scrambled to his feet, casting one final look of confusion towards Rufus before scampering off to the woods beyond. "Could have at least said, thank you," Rufus muttered only to turn and find Wyatt shaking his head at him, "What?"
"Isn't he one of ours ?" he asked, pointing to the unconscious man now laying sprawled at their feet.
"Uh…" Rufus blanched sheepishly, "I don't know...maybe?"
Shaking his head at him, Wyatt cursed, "Jesus Rufus, what the hell were you thinking? You don't even have a damn weapon, you could have been killed. Why the hell didn't you bring your musket?"
"I did!" Rufus cried defensively, "but do you think I know how to reload it? One shot was all I got...and I hit a damn tree." Twirling the frying pan he boasted, "I'll have you know I knocked out at least three French soldiers with this thing." Wyatt shook his head at him and chuckled as he tossed him a pistol, "You get Lucy?"
"Yeah," Wyatt nodded, pointing ahead of them, "she's with…where is she?" Rushing forward in full blown panic, Wyatt raced back towards Daniel Morgan who was no longer standing next to Lucy...hell, he wasn't standing at all...instead, he was hunched over and obviously struggling to get to his feet. Gripping onto his arm, Wyatt demanded "Where the hell is…" but as Daniel Morgan turned to face him, Wyatt dropped his arm and recoiled back away in horror.
"What...what..."
"Shot," Daniel Boone explained as he kneeled down beside his friend, shook off his own neckerchief and quickly set to work. "Easy there, Morgan...I'll have you back in the fray in no time at all," he teased as began binding the cloth around his friend's jaw which was almost completely missing. In fact, the entire left side of his face was nothing but a gaping, bloody hole. "Damn coward," Boone spat out, "shot him from behind."
"Where's Lucy?" Wyatt uttered desperately.
Wordlessly, Morgan pointed a bloody hand ahead of him, urging Wyatt with a frantic wave of his other arm to go after her.
"Go," Boone cried to him, "Go and get her, I'll look after him, take him back to camp...after we kill a few more Frenchmen," he assured at Morgan's pointed glare. Nodding to Wyatt seriously, he breathed out, "You go on and be careful...we'll see you back at camp."
Rushing forward, Wyatt made his way through the now devastated French campsite, leaping over bodies and smoldering campfires as he searched through the chaos of retreat for Lucy. Through the trees and the smoke it was hard to make out anything, but suddenly Rufus was tugging at his sleeve, frantically directing Wyatt's attention to a wooded ridge right in front of them, "There!" he cried out, "There she is! Damn, that's gonna leave a mark…" he muttered as Lucy planted a well aimed kick right into the groin of the French soldier who had been dragging her by the arm, but Wyatt was no longer paying attention, he was already darting across the small clearing, fighting his way through the retreating soldiers, desperate not to lose Lucy again.
She was freezing.
The night was already cold enough as it was, but now, sopping wet, she couldn't help but shake uncontrollably even as Daniel Morgan draped his woolen overcoat over her shoulders and ushered her towards a large pine tree which, Morgan surmised to her as he led her to it, would "offer a great deal more protection from both the wind...and God-willing, the French," than the naked birch tree they had been crouching behind.
"May I?" he offered kindly, taking her hands in his. At Lucy's shaky nod, he rubbed some warmth back into them, telling her as he kept a keen watch on the chaos before them, "I don't think I have to tell you that that man of yours is quite determined...if not a little reckless." Lucy smiled, inwardly delighting that even in 1754, Wyatt's reputation for being a reckless hothead was still very much intact as Daniel Morgan continued, "He was prepared to take on this whole army on his own, just to get you back, you know?"
"Really?" Lucy asked in genuine surprise...though as she thought about it, she figured she really shouldn't be that surprised...even if she had begun to doubt that he would come to save her. Wyatt was, after all, Wyatt - the man whose reputation for reckless bravery had earned him the position on their team. She had seen it first hand on their missions. Whether it was charging into the Nazi castle to save their skins, or being willing to die to protect her and Rufus at the Alamo...or taking on the whole of Fort Duquesne just to get her and Rufus back to safety...he was Wyatt...brave, reckless and infuriatingly stubborn, Wyatt...and the whole reason she had survived any of this for as long as she had.
"Why should that surprise you?" Morgan asked as he blew into her hands. "Your husband clearly…"
But what her husband was, Lucy never found out as at that moment, Daniel Morgan's face literally exploded right before her eyes.
Horrified and splattered with blood, Lucy scrambled backwards only to find herself falling right into the hands of two French soldiers accompanying Major Marcel Toussaint.
"Vous ne vous en sortirez pas si facilement," he gritted out as he smirked at her through obvious pain. Lucy attempted to run back to Wyatt, but was yanked back to Marcel's feet by the soldier's holding her. Seeing this, Marcel glanced over to where Wyatt was fighting alongside Rufus. Aiming his pistol carefully, Marcel murmured, "Peut-être que je devrais juste lui tirer dessus maintenant?"
His finger squeezed against the trigger and Lucy, though freezing and exhausted, kicked out against him causing his well aimed shot to miss, exploding instead into the ground before them in a flurry of rock and dirt.
Cursing, Marcel began reloading his pistol as the French soldier holding her, readjusted his grip and hauled her into the air. "Get off of me," she gritted out, but as cold and exhausted as he was, she found she could not muster up the strength to fight. Chuckling, the soldier hoisted her up in the air running towards where Francois Coulon was observing the retreat astride his horse. "Je l'ai monsieur! Je l'ai"
"No!" Lucy screeched, twisting herself around until the soldier fumbled his grip on her and she tumbled to the ground. Cursing, the French soldier grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her feet, "No!," Lucy screamed again, "Wyatt!"
"Ne t'inquiète pas, ma chère." Marcel grunted as he pressed a handkerchief to his bloody side, his arm broken arm hanging limply at his side. "Je ne te tuerai pas avant d'être fatigué de toi." he sneered before turning to where Wyatt was huddled next to an injured Daniel Morgan, "Ton mari par contre…" he sneered.
At the not so thinly veiled threat directed at Wyatt, Lucy let out a screech of fury wrenching her arm away from the soldier who had a hold of her and landing a kick straight to his groin. Groaning in pain, the soldier toppled over and Lucy, desperate to get back to Wyatt started towards him, only to have her way blocked by Marcel who had exchanged his bloodied handkerchief for a pistol, "Ou pensez-vous que vous pouvez courir, ma chere?"
With a side glance towards an ever watchful Francois Coulon, Lucy stumbled backwards onto the ground, nervously eyeing Marcel as he loomed above her. In one last desperate attempt to escape, Lucy turned and scrambled to her feet, running as fast as she could into the woods away from him. She could hear Marcel shouting after her, could hear the whinnying cry of Francois Coulon's horse as he thundered through the trees in pursuit, but she didn't waste time to look back. She tripped and stumbled over dead bodies, her hands and dress now covered in blood and gore as she continued to work her way through the woods as fast as her legs could carry her.
A musket shot fired from somewhere behind her, exploding into a tree beside her head. Ducking as she sprinted on, she lost her balance and pitched forward, tumbling down a soft grade of land that put her closer to the river. Scrambling back to her feet, she heaved out a breath and surveyed the woods around her, rocks and tree roots, thick underbrush and mud puddles were slowing her progress. Gripping the stitch in her side, she knew that she couldn't continue on like this, but she also knew she couldn't give up. The continued sound of shouts and musket fire echoing through the woods behind her was enough evidence of why that wasn't even a remote possibility.
They would absolutely kill her now. That wasn't even a question.
After taking a moment, just a moment, to hold her head in her bloodied hands and sob, Lucy shakily got to her feet and continued on, but no sooner had she gone a few feet than she found herself stumbling down another hill, this one steeper than before. Exhausted, freezing, sore and feeling absolutely helpless, Lucy lay still, hugging the sloping hillside, the cold and sheer exhaustion overtaking her. As the echoes of shouts and gunfire sounded all around her she burrowed herself further into damp leaves on the hillside inwardly thinking that maybe instead of running she could just stay like this - hidden out of view until the coast was clear…and then, then...when everything was quiet and still she could find her way back to Wyatt.
Notes:
Good Gosh Almighty, I'm sorry this has been delayed for so long. Let's see - since I last updated, I've been house hunting...bought a house...and then spent a good month living between two houses...and now I'm unpacking. In all of that, I've been working on this chapter. It's been 99.9% completed for so long...I truly thought I'd be able to update it in February, but with my life literally being upended and boxed away, it turned out to be a bit of a pipe dream.
Now for the chapter -
Before you kill me, just know - Wyatt will find Lucy pretty much immediately in the next chapter so don't worry about them being separated again...they won't be.
Bogs - let me tell you - as a Pennsylvanian, I had NO idea how many bogs there were in this time period. I happened upon a collection of diary entries from Braddock's men as they made their way to Duquesne and it's report after report of having to build bridges to bypass swamp land. Having been to these areas, some of them aren't that way now, but you can totally appreciate that that's how they once were when you look at the landscape. Massive forested hills and deep valleys...coupled with PA's rainy weather makes for lots of creeks, rivers and yes, bogs. Modern technology helps keep many of these areas dry today, but back then, those valleys were fairly precarious. Another report I read, talked about how drownings were so common in these boggy areas...all the vegetation, roots, vines...getting tangled in your arms and legs...and so, of course, I had to bring that into the fic.
Daniel Morgan...here's a fun fact - he was shot in the back of the neck during the French and Indian War (1756) and lost half of his face during an ambush. I moved that moment here because it's just a bad ass moment...especially when you consider he goes on after that to become an American Revolutionary War hero.
Jane Fraser - I know she kind of disappeared when all hell broke loose...that was done by design. I hope no one thinks Lucy is heartless for sort of forgetting about her, but given everything that occurs, her mind is very much in fight or flight AND muddled even further by cold...she's soaking wet in sub-freezing temperatures.
There was a lot of violence in this chapter, I know...but holy goodness...it was a violent time...I really can't emphasize that enough. Every time I think I've read the worst of what was done in this time, I read another account and am shocked all over again.
Anyway, I know this fic is SO SO SO SO SO long and has been dragging along FOREVER, but we're ALMOST done. Thank you for your continued patience as I desperately try to eke out times to write and get this story finished for you all.
Hope you enjoyed it.