Chapter Four
A lone figure stood before the stately window in the study of the Governor's palace at Williamsburg, Virginia. His hands were locked behind the back of his ostentatious frock coat which was cut from the finest of fabrics and hand-decorated with ornamental seashells and savage animals in an overt show of his domination over the New World's vast, and as yet, mostly unexplored wilderness interior. With a sigh the figure's shoulders slumped. Power was as fickle as a woman. A man could hold it utterly in one hand and at the same time feel it slipping inexorably out of the grasp of the other. Outside the window, the grass of the Common was white as the elaborate sugar paste baskets that graced the center of the stately table in the Palace's dining hall where his guests sat, waiting to begin their feast. The wine was poured. The servants ready. The chefs stood by, awaiting a single word.
The only thing not ready was the Governor.
John Murray, the 4th earl of Dunsmore and Governor General of the Virginia Territory, placed a hand against the frosted window pane. He glanced at the edict he held in his hand, and then his thoughts flew – as they often did – to the land that lay beyond the expensive glass, beyond Williamsburg with its thin veneer of civilization, to the lush Kentucky Territory with its primeval forests and primitive inhabitants. But most of all they flew to one particular inhabitant of that vast wilderness, not so primitive, though he chose to live as if he was.
His son.
Riders had come in from the Kentucky that morning with word of a storm of monstrous proportions which had settled on the blue-green land, smothering it in silence and snow. Where in that vast expanse of white, he wondered, was his son? Where was Kerr, or Cara-Mingo as he preferred to be called now? Would another rider arrive – in a day or a week – to tell him his son's frozen body had been found, and his bones taken to be mingled with those of his mother, Talota, where they lay crumbling on a bier raised high above the earth?
Lord Dunsmore brought his fist down on the glass.
No!
Someone cleared their throat behind him. "Sir?"
John Murray turned to find his black servant, Hector, standing just within the door of the study. Hector had been with him for many years and had permission to enter his presence without being called for – if the need was imminent.
"What is it?" he asked.
"A man to see you, sir."
"There are a hundred men who want to see me," he sighed. "That is why I have barricaded myself in here."
"Yes, sir. But this man…." Hector glanced behind. "Well, I think you'll want to see him, sir. He's come in answer to your summons."
"My summons?" he frowned. "What is his name?"
A pale hand was laid to the door above Hector's brown head. As it slowly opened inward, his man-servant backed into the room. "Lucien LaCroix," the tall white-haired man wearing a splendid dress uniform of crimson and gold who stepped into the study said, announcing his own arrival. "Brigadier General Lucien LaCroix. Retired, of course."
"Lucien!" John Murray's face broke into a genuine smile – the first it had worn throughout this long day of wooing and winning allies. "My dear fellow, it has been years! Why, you haven't aged a day!"
Lucien's ice blue eyes crackled and his upper lip twitched, lifting to form the accustomed sneer which all who knew him understood to be a smile. " 'Beautyis but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly', my dear fellow." General LaCroix crossed the room in several long strides and halted near the mahogany desk that stood in front of the window. He studied him a moment and then said, quietly, "I am sorry to say I cannot return the compliment, John. You look quite fatigued."
John Murray dismissed Hector with a nod. As the door to the study closed, he dropped heavily in the upholstered wing-chair behind the desk. Flinging the edict onto the polished surface, he sighed, "Ever the diplomat, Lucien. And as usual, quite correct."
Lucien LaCroix balanced one hip on the edge of the desk. "Trouble with the peasants?" he sneered.
John Murray lifted his hands as he laughed. "Good God! Don't let the locals hear you say that. Every man in attendance tonight from Massachusetts to the Carolinas counts himself a king of infinite space!"
"Were it not that he had…bad…dreams…." LaCroix leaned in close and whispered, "What troubles your sleep, my friend?"
He leaned back in his chair. "Prince Hamlet, whom you quote, once said in sorrow of his father, 'I shall not look upon his like again.' My eldest son would say the same thing, and be glad about it!"
LaCroix shook his white head. "Children. What can you do? They must rebel." He closed one hand into a fist and brought it down sharply, making the items on the desk jump. "And we must bring them to heel! For their own good, of course," he added with a contrived smile.
"What is Nicholas doing these days?" John Murray asked. Back in England he and the enigmatic Lucien LaCroix had formed a fast friendship – due for the most part to their recalcitrant sons.
"Trying his father's patience as usual." Lucien rose and walked to the window and stared out at the white world beyond. "Here. Somewhere."
"In the colonies?"
"Oh, yes. He and Jeanne traveled with me to the capital. Nicholas worked an elaborate charade – oh, the boy is bright! He escaped me."
"And the lovely Jeanne – is she here?"
General LaCroix pursed his lips and nodded. "Ever faithful, she has followed her 'Nichola'. They are both out there. Lost in paradise. For the moment…." Lucien shrugged as he looked at him. "But like the proverbial lamb, they shall come home to me wagging their tales behind them – sooner or later."
Jeanne and Nicholas were Lucien LaCroix's adopted children, though he felt as strongly for them as if they had been his own. John Murray had a suspicion that Nicholas might actually be Lucien's, perhaps a bastard as his own son was, for the love the white-haired Englishman bore his errant blond boy was fiercely possessive. But that was his own opinion.
"And so, here we are, two loving fathers with wayward lambs," he remarked at last. "What are we to do?"
"I understand you have already 'done' something, John," Lucien said quietly.
John Murray's eyes flew to the open letter on the desk. "What? How would you know – "
"Did I not say I was 'summoned', your Lordship," LaCroix executed a deep bow. When he rose, he wore a sly grin. "Brigadier Lucien LaCroix, retired – no more. I am one of His Majesty's Intelligence Agents."
"You are a spy?"
"Tsk. Tsk. Such a gauche term. Let us say, I undertake covert operations. And I understand you have need of just such an operative. And one you can trust."
He said nothing. This was not what he had expected, and the sudden turn of events left him uneasy.
"John…." Lucien spread his arms wide. "This is me you are talking to. You need a man to carry out a secret mission in the Kentucky Territory, do you not? I am not mistaken, am I?" His smile dripped acid. "You have placed a bounty on your son's head?"
John Murray leaned back in his chair. "I would not put it exactly like that…."
"And yet, in so many words, that is what it is. You are willing to pay to have him brought here – in chains if necessary."
"Yes. By God! Yes!" Lord Dunsmore left his chair and began to pace before the window. "I will not have my son die on some back woods battlefield, taken down by a bullet from one of my own men's guns, or pierced by an arrow shot by some painted savage! I know if I can spend time with him – out of his element and in mine – I can convince him of the error of his ways."
"And you are willing to see him languish in prison? For, John, it is likely that is what you will have to do – imprison him."
He nodded. "I would hope that would prove unnecessary. But yes, I am prepared for that eventuality. Kerr will hate me at first, of course. But time heals all wounds." He turned and looked out the window once again. "I have many holdings. Several small estates which are situated in the Highlands and for the most part, wholly forgotten. A man placed there would be the same."
"Good man!" General LaCroix joined him before the window. He laid a hand on his shoulder. "I always knew we were cut of the same mold. But tell me, John…"
Lord Dunsmore looked at his old friend. "Yes?"
"Is there room on that estate for another wayward boy?"
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Chota seemed a very long way away.
Unfortunately neither Henry Pitcairn nor the deceased Shawnee of Wi-sha-sho had seen fit to include snow-shoes in their wardrobes, so he and Nicholas were forced to slog through drifts up to their knees and over their thighs in places. Their only saving grace was the fact that the storm had abated. It had been at least half a day since the wind had died down and what white flakes remained amounted to only a dusting. Though it was frigidly cold and the path was often treacherous, at least they could see where they were going – even if most of the familiar landmarks had been erased.
Mingo glanced at his companion. They were standing on a slight rise, adrift in a world of white. Nicholas as he remembered was immune to the cold. Still, as they traveled and the morning light – though diffused – grew ever more present in the winter sky, his friend seemed to weaken. Nicholas' skin grew pallid, losing the rosy glow of youth, and he began to move like an old man. Not that Mingo fared much better. Fighting his way back from all but freezing to death had left him weak. He was barely able to keep his feet. They both needed food and shelter –
And they needed them both now.
Nicholas turned his face toward the sky. It was filled with clouds and gray as old lavender, but the sun was there, hiding behind the thick banks. His former schoolmate drew his heavy cloak up to shield his face. Breathing hard, Nicholas said simply, "I need to get out of the light."
Mingo nodded. Nicholas' condition had perplexed the best medical minds at Oxford. The final analysis had been that it was something in his blood. If exposed for too long to the sun, he developed a burning rash which began to consume his skin. "We are near the Green River. There are many caves between here and my village. Daniel and I use them often. I believe I can lead us to one."
"How far?" his friend asked, panting.
"Mercifully for both of us, not very." Mingo offered his hand. "The wilderness is the great equalizer. Allow me to help you, as you helped me."
Nicholas grinned as he took his hand and leaned into his strength. "Thank you, my friend."
It took them more than an hour to find shelter. By the time they did, they were both exhausted. Nicholas had grown faint. Mingo helped him to sit and then stepped back and looked at him. His friend's skin was mottled and covered with a slick sheen of sweat. He was breathing hard and his blue eyes looked feverish.
In fact, Nicholas Knightsford gave every impression of a man on his deathbed, not long for this world.
As Mingo knelt by his side, he asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?"
His old friend's smile was weak. "Just let me sleep. And do not wake me until the sun has gone to bed."
He nodded. "Very well. I will keep watch."
Mingo positioned himself at the cave's entrance. He had no weapon. His were lost, and Nicholas never seemed to carry one. Still, he thought, he could listen and give warning should trouble come. He caught himself nodding once…twice…and the third time, fell asleep.
At least, he told himself later, he had to have been asleep.
There was a noise. The sound of a someone singing, soft and low. It roused him. Rising to his feet, Mingo looked outside the cave and then searched its darkened interior.
Finding no one.
Sitting back down, he positioned himself a good six inches from the wall and forced his body to remain upright – and awake. With no time to heal, he had to fight every inch of the way. The journey to the cave had left him exhausted. On edge. Mingo glanced at the cave mouth. Obviously he had been hearing things.
Idly, he wondered how long a man could go without food before he began to hallucinate.
Time passed slowly. Minutes. Then an hour. Two. And, in spite of his best efforts, his eyes closed once more.
And then he heard it again. A voice. Humming a tune. And footsteps. As if someone walked up the path to the cave. Peering beneath his lids, Mingo searched the stone floor. Just as an icy wind arose, chilling him, a shadow appeared, eclipsing the waning sunlight.
"Animal. This time she will take you," a man snarled close to his ear as it enveloped him.
Mingo's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright.
The cave was empty.
Panting, he rose to his feet and ran out into the dwindling sunlight. Sweating and shaking, he turned first one way and then the other, searching for the form that had cast the shadow. Finding nothing, Mingo sank down to the ground outside the cave and leaned his head back against the hill, utterly exhausted. He remained there for some time until a hand falling on his shoulder roused him and brought him to his feet with a shout.
A tall figure stood before him, silhouetted in black against the rising moon. There was a rifle in its hand and on its head –
A blessedly familiar coonskin cap.
"Daniel," Mingo breathed in relief.
Daniel Boone grinned his lop-sided grin. "Well, if'n you ain't a sight for sore eyes, Mingo. Even if you are wearin' a British coat!"
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"Is your friend all right?" Dan asked. "He don't look like he's hardly breathin'."
Mingo had led the big frontiersman into the cave and was kneeling now next to Nicholas Knightsford where he lay huddled close to the interior wall. "I have seen him this way before," Mingo answered as he shifted Nicholas' cloak over his shoulder and then stood up.
"Then you two do know each other?"
"Long ago, Daniel. A lifetime ago."
Dan sized up his friend. "You're lookin' mighty puny yourself, Mingo. And mighty peculiar. Where'd you get the English uniform?"
The Cherokee didn't seem to want to answer. "It was in the place where Nicholas found me. Its…former owner had no need of it."
"And that would be?"
Mingo had turned away. He pivoted back. "What?"
"Where Nicholas found you…."
Unexpectedly, his Indian friend snapped. "They are Henry Pitcairn's! Are you satisfied?"
"Pitcairn's? Mingo, what're you talkin' about. Henry Pitcairn is long gone."
Mingo walked to the cave mouth where he stood staring off into the wintry world. As Dan followed him he said, "Oh, he is gone, all right. We found him dead. Hanging from the ceiling of the Place of 1000 Spirits."
"Hangin'? Who hung him? The Shawnee? Toka, you think?"
Mingo shook his head. He wrapped his arms about his linen shirt and shuddered. "No, Daniel. It was by his own hand. Henry Pitcairn is now one of the damned."
"You're talkin' from that Indian side of yours again, Mingo."
The Cherokee snorted. "Even my father's religion believes that those who die by their own hand are condemned to perdition. Your religion, Daniel. Why will your parson not bury a suicide within the church grounds?"
Dan shrugged. "Superstition. Narrow minded men."
"Or wise ones, who offer no safe harbor to a spirit damned." Mingo's near black eyes were wide. "He was here, Daniel. Tonight. Just before you arrived. In fact, when you woke me, I thought you were he."
"Who? Pitcairn?" Dan leaned his weight on Ticklicker. He shook his head. "I thought you said he was dead, Mingo."
His Cherokee friend met his skeptical gaze. "He is. Believe me, Daniel. He is." As he spoke the words, Mingo swayed. His dark eyes closed and he started to fall, but caught himself.
"Mingo, you're plumb worn out," Dan said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "How long's it been since you had somethin' to eat?"
He shook his head. "I do not remember."
"And Nicholas? How long's he been with you?"
"A day, maybe more." Mingo frowned, as if he noticed something in the way he asked it. "What is it, Daniel?"
The frontiersman shook his head. "There's somethin' that's botherin' me. You said Nicholas found you in the Place of 1000 Spirits?"
"Yes."
"I don't know how he could have. He and I traveled from Boonesborough together. We parted north of the river. It was near a full day's walk to the cave and yet, seems he got to you in only a few hours."
"You must be mistaken, Daniel."
Dan shook his head. "Nope." Then he smiled. "Oh well, it's somethin' to start a conversation with when he wakes. Now you go back there with him and get some shut eye."
"No. I can't…."
"Mingo. Ghost or no ghost, you ain't gonna make it back to the settlement without food and some sleep." Dan hefted Ticklicker. "I'll take care of the first part. It's up to you to look to the second."
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Mingo watched his friend go and then turned back to where Nicholas Knightsford lay sleeping as one dead. He moved into the deep shadows that cradled his friend and sat down close by his prone form. With Daniel's departure an unnatural stillness settled over the cave. There was no sound. Not even of his old friend breathing.
Uneasy, Mingo began to hum.
The song was familiar, though he couldn't quite recall where he had heard it. His rich baritone filled the emptiness, soothing him, and in time he fell asleep and the cave fell into silence.
Until another took up the tune.
