Chapter Nine
Rebecca Boone straightened up from where she had been leaning over the tavern
hearth, stoking the fire. She used an ash-stained hand to shove her coppery bangs back from her forehead and sighed.
She only wished it were her own.
After what had happened with General LaCroix, Yad and Cincinnatus had insisted she and the children come to the fort. She hadn't argued too much. Her encounter with the Englishman had deeply disturbed her. The man was evil.
Pure evil.
In the end she decided it was a good thing she had come anyway. Cincinnatus had been pale and trembling and barely on his feet when he had come to the cabin, and shortly after their return, had fallen ill. Now he lay in his bed upstairs fighting a mild fever – nothing life-threatening, but enough to put him off his feet and leave no one to run the tavern. When the burden of watching over it fell on her, Becky had made the decision to send Jemima and Israel to stay with friends. She had been afraid they might catch it.
No, that wasn't true. She was just afraid.
Crossing the room, she stepped behind the counter and began straightening the pewter mugs that lined its battered surface for the tenth time, looking for something to keep her hands occupied. As she rearranged them – sorting them by size – she heard voices outside the door. Becky froze, staring at the wooden barricade and then – for a reason she couldn't put her finger on – ducked down behind the counter.
She felt the wintry blast of the door opening even there. Frigid air ran across the floor and swept over her, lifting the hair on her head as well as her apron strings. She heard the tramp of heavy boots and several loud voices speaking with a familiar and unwelcome accent.
The Redcoats had returned! Becky shuddered, wondering if that awful man was with them.
"Put him over there," a gruff voice ordered. "By the fire." More footsteps sounded. Martial. Clipped. And then a hand came down so hard on the counter above her that she jumped. "Barkeep! Barkeep! Wake up! You have custom."
Becky frowned. They might wake Cincinnatus, and the last thing the older man needed to do was rise out of his sick bed.
"Barkeep! We have need of a room!"
"There doesn't seem to be anyone here," another voice, younger remarked. "Just choose one and put him in it. The General will be here soon. He'll have our hides if his orders are not carried out."
"Have our hides and tan them!" the other snorted. Becky heard the man move off and then the sound of feet taking the stairs two at a time. "Right! I'll find a bed."
The room she was in went silent with the exception of the sound of someone being dragged across the floor. As curiosity overcame her fear, Becky decided to take a look. She slid to the side of the counter and peered cautiously around the end. There were two Redcoats near the fire. One was short and blond. He was standing, leaning over the other one who was slumped in a chair. The second man was tall, with hair as black as ink. Becky frowned. The man in the chair looked familiar. Something about the way he held himself –
Dear Lord! It was Mingo.
Becky threw her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp of surprise. Then she shifted back as the other soldier returned, descending the stair. "There's an old man asleep in the back room," he said "Look's to be sick."
"Anything catching?" his companion asked.
"God only knows!" the first answered, halting just beyond the counter. "The other rooms are all empty, though there must be a woman here somewhere. At least there's a female's things in the room close by the old man's."
"I wonder who she is. Not a wife if there're separate rooms."
"An indentured servant then? Maybe the one who stoked the fire just before we arrived? If so, she'll likely be back."
"Aye. Give us a hand then, eh, Barnes? He's a right longshanks, he is."
Becky's frown deepened as she listened to the men carry Mingo up the stair. It didn't surprise her that he was ill – after all he had run out into the storm inebriated. But what in the world had happened after that? How did Mingo end up in the company of Redcoats – and dressed as one of them?
And where was Dan?
A moment later she heard both men descend the stair. One headed for the tavern door, while the other approached the counter where she was hiding. The soldier leaned over – right above her head – and grabbed a bottle of rum. She heard him uncork it.
"Barnes, what do you think you're doing?" the man near the door called.
"What's it hurt, Jimmy?" Barnes answered. "I'm just warming my innards."
"General LaCroix will warm more than your innards if he catches you slacking," Jimmy replied.
"I ain't slacking. That one upstairs is all but dead. What do you think? He's going to rise from that bed like Lazarus and walk out of here?"
"It's your head, Barnes. Just see that he don't."
"Right."
The door opened, admitting another blast of frozen air and then closed with a loud thud. Barnes took another swig and then moved away, heading for the hearth and the blazing fire. She heard him turn the chair Mingo had occupied around. Shifting forward, Becky peered around the end of the counter again and saw that he slouched in it, facing the fire.
Now was her chance.
Drawing a deep breath and holding it as she moved, Becky slipped out from behind the counter and crawled toward the stairs. This would be the test. She had stayed here so many times with the children that she knew Cincinnatus' staircase like the back of her hand. She knew every step that creaked and each board that popped – but she was scared and nervous, and shaky on her feet.
"Please God," she whispered. "Don't let me make a mistake, and if I do – deafen Barnes' ears."
When she reached the staircase she stood upright and placed her foot on the bottom step, a little to the right of its center. She moved up three steps in the same way and then switched to the left side for the next two. Then she hesitated. Right or left? Which was it? Making a choice, she put her foot down and froze when there was a small 'crack'. Holding her breath, she glanced at the soldier where he sat before the fire. Barnes had his chin on his chest and was snoring.
Letting the breath out Becky murmured a quiet 'thanks', and then mounted the remaining steps and headed for the room where Mingo lay.
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He loved her – and he hated her. And right now, Nicholas wanted to take Janette and shake her until her perfect teeth rattled in her exquisite head.
"Janette! What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that I know where my loyalties lie," she snapped as one dark eyebrow arched. "That I know who loves me and cares for me. Who has granted me an eternity of beauty and life."
"You call this 'life'?" He gripped her hand and the glass she held, the one into which Janette had just emptied the remainder of a wine bottle filled with calf's blood. "LaCroix has granted us both a 'life' of eternal damnation!"
"And is it so terrible to be 'damned', mon amour?" She came close to him, brushing his face with her fingertips. "We have lived many lives, seen more and been more than any mortal can be in one lifetime."
He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. "And I would trade it all to be one of them again."
"My poor tormented Nichola. When will you ever learn that you cannot win? That every attempt you make to become mortal again only infuriates and invigorates LaCroix? You see how long it took him to find out about your foolish scheme to seek out a Cherokee Shaman – "
"And who told him about my 'foolish scheme'?" he demanded, twisting her wrist. "His dutiful 'daughter'? Why do you continue to damn me, Janette? I thought…. I thought we were – "
She pressed the fingers of her other hand to his lips. "We were. That is why. And we three are a family – even if you do not care to admit it."
"What has LaCroix done with Mingo? Tell me!"
Her upper lip twitched. "Taken him back to the tavern."
"Why?"
"To give him time to heal."
"And then he means to return him to London? To use him to bargain with Lord Dunsmore for power and influence. For what, Janette? For what?"
She shrugged. "You know LaCroix. Whatever little mischief he can stir up. This country stands on the brink of war. Do you not think he would want a part of that? Battles bring blood, Nichola. Blood that is not missed."
He nodded. "And Lord Dunsmore has control over the greatest portion of this country. The Virginia Territory. With him beholden to LaCroix…."
"There is no end to the…mischief he can make."
"But to ruin a man's life. Janette, how can you be a party to this? Kerr was your friend as well as mine."
Her pale jaw tightened. "He rejected me."
"And so you would damn him to prison? Because he insulted your vanity? It would be the same as condemning him to death."
"Perhaps." Her blue eyes were lidded. Suddenly they flicked to his. "Though there might be another way…."
Nicholas stared at her and then he shook his head. "No. No! I will not allow it."
"And how could you stop LaCroix if that is what he truly chose to do? Think of it, Nichola. One of us among the Peerage. And one so handsome and intelligent, so able. What could he not accomplish among his father's people – and his mother's?"
"Dear God," he breathed, truly horrified.
"God has very little to do with us, Nichola. You should have learned that long ago. God has turned his back on our kind."
"He has not turned his back on Mingo. And He never will if I have anything to say about it. LaCroix shall not have him!"
"And how will you stop him?" she challenged. "You have tried before and you have always lost."
He snorted. "Thank you for your vote of confidence, Janette. It is appreciated. Now, get out of my way."
He pushed past her and headed for the door. As he reached it, she called out, "Do you think that LaCroix will not destroy you if you push him too far?"
Nicholas Knightsford turned back.
"Well, then," he answered with a grin, "I will have finally won, won't ?I"
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Becky looked in on Cincinnatus to make certain the soldiers had not done anything to harm him. When it seemed he was all right – and sleeping more peacefully than before – she moved on to the room down the passageway where they had placed Mingo. Entering, she closed the door behind her, hopeful the tired and half-frozen soldier below would not remember whether or not he had left it open. Moving to the bed, she sat by her friend's side and looked at him.
Mingo was paler than she had ever seen him before. He seemed to have lost weight in just the short time he had been absent. The soldiers had removed the heavy crimson coat and boots and dumped him in the bed. He was dressed in a thin linen shirt and buff colored breeches with clocked stockings. Becky rose and went to the linen press and found a blanket. Returning to the bed, she pulled it up to his chin and tucked it in around him to keep him warm. As she did, he moaned and shifted.
"Mingo?" she whispered. "Mingo, can you hear me? You must keep quiet."
He made no sound, but his eyes moved beneath their lids.
She sat again and gripped his hand. "Mingo?"
His lips were dry. They parted with effort. His voice, when he spoke, was a pale imitation of its normal deep tones. His eyes opened, but she was not sure what it was they saw. "Rebecca?" he asked.
"Yes. It's me. You're in the tavern, Mingo." Becky frowned, thinking of it. "British soldiers brought you in. Mingo, what's happening? Where is Dan?"
His face grew taut with pain. He shook his head as if unable to contend with her barrage of questions. "Rebecca, help me…."
"I'm sorry. I will. We have to get you out of here." She remembered how the soldiers had labored to bring him into the tavern. "Can you walk?"
"No. Not that… You have to help me." His deep brown eyes grew wild as his fingers gripped hers. "Rebecca, you must make him go away!"
"The soldier?" she asked, at a loss.
"No. Him." He lifted his head and stared at the shadows as if there was someone there watching. "Henry Pitcairn."
Becky shook her head. "Mingo, Henry Pitcairn is long gone. He left the fort, don't you remember? What do you – "
"No. Not gone. He's here." He frowned with pain as he lifted his hand and placed it on his chest. "Here with me."
"With you?" Becky's confusion was quickly turning to fear. There was something terribly wrong with her friend. "Mingo, what do you mean?"
"Something happened, Rebecca," he said quite clearly, sounding almost like himself. "Pitcairn, he hanged himself…in the Place of 1000 Spirits."
"Oh, Mingo, no!" She had pitied the man – so lost, so tormented by what he had done. "You found him?"
"As he found me!" Mingo's hand gripped hers hard as he rose up in the bed and turned to look at her. "You have to help me, Rebecca! Somehow, Pitcairn has taken possession of me. I hear him, in my head. I see him, standing in the snow, watching. I see them all – all the ones he killed, the spirits of Wi-sha-sho. They think I am him. That I have escaped their justice. They want to destroy me!'
As he spoke Mingo's voice had risen in pitch, so much so that she feared Barnes would hear it and wake and come to see what was the matter. Becky leaned forward and placed a hand over his mouth. "Mingo, shh! He will hear! The soldier, he'll come. Mingo, hush!" The hand trembled. She truly feared for her friend's sanity. "Mingo, please!"
His dark eyes were wide with wonder and fear. Mingo shuddered and then fell back against the pillows, breathing hard. "Rebecca…." His hand stretched out toward her. "James…two…nineteen." His fingers brushed hers and then went slack as Mingo slid back into unconsciousness.
James 2:19. Becky stifled a sob as tears streaked down her cheeks. She had been about to explain that he could not be possessed by Henry Pitcairn as he feared – that there was no such thing as possession. But her 'heathen' friend had shamed her with his words. Becky rose shakily to her feet and checked the passageway outside the room. It was clear. Thankfully Barnes must be a sound sleeper and General LaCroix had not returned. She moved down the corridor and into her own room, and then returned at all speed with a black book clutched tightly in her hands. Sitting beside Mingo, she opened the Holy Scriptures to the Book of James, the second chapter, verse nineteen, and read:
'Thou believest that God is one, thou doest well. The demons also believe, and shudder."
Chastised, Becky closed the Bible and fell on her knees beside the bed and did the only thing she could.
She prayed.
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Sometime later she was roused by the sound of raised voices. Becky shook herself and rose wearily to her feet. She was exhausted, but was still surprised that she had fallen asleep – though fervent prayer did at times lull her into a state that was not of this world. She checked Mingo and pulled the coverlet up beneath his chin. He was sleeping. His dark head was on the pillow and he looked for all the world as small and as helpless as Israel. Becky leaned over and planted a kiss on his forehead and then went to the door and opened it a crack.
Yes, there were definitely people below – arguing. She could make out two men's voices and, occasionally, what sounded like a woman's exclamation of concern – as if she sought to keep their disagreement civilized.
Stealing out of the room, Becky crept to the top of the stair and peered down it. What she saw took her breath. The handsome blond man who had left the cabin in the company of her missing husband – Nicholas Knightsford – was there, and that woman, Jeanne. Barnes, the British soldier, lay on the floor, his neck twisted at an odd angle and blood pooling beneath him. Leaning over him, his mouth bloodied and his eyes blazing like Hellfire –
Was General Lucien LaCroix.
Becky swallowed her startled gasp and retreated into the shadows as Nicholas, whose back was to her, demanded of the other man, "Have you lost all sense of reason? Anyone could walk in here, at any minute!"
"Yes, they could." LaCroix rose to his feet. He ran a finger along his lips which were painted red with the soldier's blood. "And we would have to kill them all? Wouldn't we?" When Nicholas remained silent, the general sneered triumphantly, "Check, Nicholas."
"LaCroix is right, Nichola. Let us be gone."
"No! I will not allow him to destroy Mingo. He is a good man. He is needed here. His father cares nothing for him. Mingo is only another pawn to be used in Lord Dunsmore's game of chess!"
"Well, what else do you think we have children for, Nicholas?" the general scoffed. "To love and to be loved by? If so, then you are a miserable failure as a son."
"From you, LaCroix, that is a compliment!"
"You see, Janette?" the white-haired man said, shaking his head. "What I have to put up with? More and more, I think perhaps another adopted son would show me the proper respect."
"Mingo would hate you as I hate you," Nicholas snarled.
"Well, then, you would have a brother." LaCroix smiled viciously. "Don't ever say I didn't get you anything for Christmas."
"You will have to destroy me to get to him," Nicholas declared.
And then something happened that Becky could not explain. General LaCroix was evil, she knew that, but in the next moment he became evil incarnate. His eyes turned an unholy green and he snarled like a beast, showing long pointed teeth. And then he rose up and flew at Nicholas.
Flew!
Becky fell back, trembling. Her hand gripped the cross around her neck. Unable to resist, she held onto it as she shifted forward again and saw Nicholas roll over just in time to escape LaCroix's deadly embrace. Then he returned to his feet with an almost supernatural speed. Nicholas' eyes were now the same violent green. And when he spoke, his voice had changed. It was the voice of an animal forming words.
"You shall not harm him. You shall not harm any of them."
"Ah! So you hear it too?" LaCroix's voice grew suddenly calm. Even. Chilling. "A heart beating. Life pulsing through a body of flesh. The rapid breath. The scent of sweat…" He pivoted suddenly and looked directly at Becky where she stood concealed in the shadows. "A lady ripe for the picking!"
"LaCroix, no. You will leave her alone!" Nicholas warned.
The white-haired man pivoted back even as Janette remarked matter-of-factly, "She is a resistor. A danger to us all, Nichola."
"You have said it yourself, LaCroix. We cannot kill indiscriminately," Nicholas countered. Then he turned his ghoulish eyes on the stair – as if he could see her where she cowered. "Mrs. Boone would be missed."
"Well, then, it seems we have a dilemma. Don't we?" General LaCroix approached Nicholas. When he spoke, his voice was low – so low it was hard for her to catch the words. "And you have a choice to make. Who will it be? The Indian?" LaCroix swung back, pointing at her. "Or the lady!" He laughed, a short harsh bark of triumph, and then held his hand out for Janette to take. "Come, my dear. I have decided to be gracious." When the pair reached the door, LaCroix looked at Nicholas and said, "You have one day. Tomorrow at this time I will find you – no matter where you are – and demand your answer. And remember always, Nicholas….
"Father knows best."
And with that, the evil creature was gone.
Nicholas Knightsford stood alone in the center of the tavern, close by the body of the ravaged soldier. He hung his head for several heartbeats. When he lifted it and looked at her, she saw that his eyes had returned to their normal blue.
"Mrs. Boone. Rebecca," he said, his voice hushed. "Please, come down. I will not harm you."
Trembling so she could hardly walk, Becky managed to make it to the top of the staircase before she stopped. Once there she clung to the rail. "Who…. What are you?" she asked.
He sighed. "Something that I do not want to be. Again, I assure you, you have nothing to fear…from me."
She took a few steps. "That man…."
"LaCroix? It will be to my eternal shame that I led him to your door. I thought of no one but myself, and now I have brought this on you – and on my old friend." Nicholas looked at the soldier laying on the floor. He stared at his own hands a moment – as if there were blood on them – and then looked up at her. "Did you see?"
Becky was at the bottom of the staircases now. "Yes. But what I saw, it can't be…."
"Just as a man cannot be possessed? As a spirit cannot rise to haunt the place where its body lays? As there are no such things as witches or Raven Mockers? Or…vampires." Nicholas held his hand out, pleading for her understanding. "I am sorry you saw what you did. You have lost some of your innocence because of me."
Her eyes went to the soldier. "Do you kill?"
He shook his head. "Not any more. LaCroix, however, has no such scruples."
"He means to kill me?" she asked.
Nicholas met her eyes. "Unless I allow him to take Mingo."
"Mingo? Why Mingo?"
The man before her shrugged. "He is a friend of mine, and so has become a pawn in the eternal game of punishing me which LaCroix delights in. That is all any of you are – pawns. Things to be used or discarded as suits his whim!"
Nicholas Knightsford looked for all the world like any ordinary man. But Becky could not deny the truth her eyes had shown her. She crossed to his side, meaning to question him further, but at her approach he turned away and averted his eyes.
"Nicholas," she asked, "what is it?"
"Your cross," he answered. "I cannot bear to look upon it without pain."
Her hand went to the precious relic. "Why is that?"
"It is a symbol of the true light, and our kind cannot bear the light," he answered, his voice laced with remorse. "We are damned. For what we are – for what I have become, there can be no forgiveness."
Becky drew a deep breath. She felt the cross pulse beneath her fingers. Closing them over it so it no longer showed, she stepped closer to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. When Nicholas looked at her, she smiled sadly.
"There is nothing that cannot be forgiven."
