Before the Scarlet Dawn: Daughters of the Potomac, Book 1 Read online

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” She hoisted her skirts to her knees with one hand and hurried to the back of the coop, where the snake wound its way between clumps of grass. She raised the rifle again, sucked in her breath, and took aim. Squeezing the trigger, the musket cracked. Smoke blinded her view, and she stumbled back. Fanning it away, she stepped cautiously forward and looked to see if she had gotten the dreadful intruder. Indeed she had, for the snake’s flesh was torn open—red and motionless against the grass.

  She smiled. Hayward would be so proud of me. Then her breath caught in her throat at the cry of a jay. And when a flock of sparrows sprang from the edge of the forest, a cold sweat prickled over her skin. Hayward had taught her the signs, and she made Fiona swear to hide with Darcy at the first hint of danger.

  If only she had brought the powder and shot with her. She could reload and defend herself as she fled to the house. She saw an Indian glide between the trees. Fear swept over her from limb to limb. He carried a tomahawk decorated with turkey feathers, and the black mask of the wolf covered his eyes.

  “Help us, God.” Slowly she backed up, then turned and ran, hoping the Indian had not seen her. Fiona stood at the window. Eliza could not call out. The brave would hear her. She fixed her eyes on Fiona and made a motion with her hand for her to move back. “Indians! Hide. Hide,” she mouthed the words, and saw Fiona’s eyes widen. Did she understand?

  The toe of Eliza’s boot caught a stone, and she fell forward. She sobbed and through the strands of hair that crossed her eyes, she looked up to see Fiona gone. Thank you, God. Protect my daughter and servant.

  Her legs scrambled and her hands pushed against the earth in her effort to get to her feet. But a pair of calloused fingers dug into her neck and hauled her up. She twisted against her attacker, kicking and clawing until the cold blade of his knife met her throat. All atremble, her legs weak and giving way, she surrendered to the power that held her.

  23

  Terror raked through Eliza. She shut her eyes tight. The blade grazed her skin, and she felt a hot trickle of blood run down her throat. I am going to die . . .

  Slowly the blade lifted away. The arm that held her relaxed and tossed her forward. When she opened her eyes, she met those of an Indian so fierce and dark that she thought her heart had stopped beating. He stared into her eyes, with hate at first, which changed to bewilderment, then pleasure as he scanned her face. Waves of nausea rose in Eliza’s stomach. Her head swam, and her brimming eyes looked away, overtaken by fear.

  “Please . . .” The word struggled in her throat as a whisper. “I am a mother . . . Please.”

  His black eyes flickered a moment. “Mother? Where your child?” he said in broken English.

  Instantly, Eliza wished she had not spoken. “She is not here. I am alone.”

  The Indian’s jaw shifted, and she knew he did not believe her. “Come, and your child will live.”

  Knowing she had no other choice, Eliza held out her arms when he tore a thrum from his deerskin leggings. Another Indian bounded from the woods and approached. How many more lurked inside the cover of the trees, she feared to know. Her wrists were bound, and she was guarded while the leader went inside the house. Eliza could only imagine the fear that must be gripping Fiona and Darcy. Tears streamed from her eyes. If they were found, the horrors of what could be done to them were too much to imagine. Her weeping turned to sobbing.

  God, do not let her whimper or cry. Please keep her silent. Do not let him find them.

  When River Run was built, a crawl space large enough to hold four adults had been dug out beneath the kitchen, near the large stone hearth. The rest of the house had a cellar beneath it, which could be easily searched. A trapdoor, marked with a notch, could be lifted up, then set back into place. Here, Fiona lowered Darcy, then herself, into the musty darkness. At the edge of the opening she had set a kitchen knife, and she grabbed it and drew the trapdoor back into place.

  “ ’Tis a game, sweet girl,” Fiona whispered. “You mustn’t make a sound. Be as quiet as a mouse. The cat is above, and we cannot let him catch us.”

  Darcy’s trusting brown eyes looked at Fiona as the child held her doll close. Fiona caressed her curls and gathered her gently into her arms. Footsteps above caused her to hold in her breath. With her heart heavy in her chest, she stared at the planks above. Dusty light seeped through threadlike cracks, then vanished when the Indian stepped over them. Her hands grew slick with sweat and she trembled. She prayed. She pleaded.

  Eliza. Oh, poor Eliza!

  The sounds lessened, and soon were no more. The Indian had stepped away, and a minute later she heard a yelp come from outside that made her blood run cold.

  Fiona waited and listened. Minutes turned into an hour, and Darcy fell to sleep in the cradle of Fiona’s arm, her breathing quiet as an angel’s, all of which Fiona thanked God for. With great caution, she set the child back, and leaned up to draw the trapdoor open. It scraped across the grooves, and she crawled out. With the knife poised in her hand, she stepped out and crept into the hall and peered into the rooms. The kitchen had been ransacked—and no doubt other rooms were as well—and her best copper kettle and carving knife were gone. Fiona narrowed her eyes and frowned.

  She had to think clearly, to gather her courage for Darcy’s sake. Returning to the hiding place, she lifted Darcy out. With Darcy in her arms, she peered out the window toward the coop. Eliza was nowhere to be seen. Fiona stifled the hard lump that grew in her throat and the tears that fell from her eyes. “Dear Lord, they have taken her. What should I do?”

  She sighed with relief that the Indian had gone. But her heart ached that he had taken her girl captive. Would it be too dangerous to saddle Eliza’s horse and go for help? It was a risk Fiona had to take. She could not remain where she was and do nothing at all.

  Her gentle, motherly hands slipped Darcy’s shoes on and tied the ribbon beneath her hat. “Now remember to be quiet, little one. The cat may still be about.”

  “What kind of cat?” Darcy whispered.

  “I have not seen him, but he is fierce. We will go to the barn and saddle Nell, then take a nice ride to Mr. Halston’s house. He is our closest neighbor and will come and chase the cat away. All right?”

  Darcy nodded. “Where is Mama?”

  “She is in the forest waiting for Mr. Halston to come and help her.”

  She picked Darcy up and slipped cautiously out the back door. When she reached the barn, she slipped inside and thanked the Almighty the Indians had not taken Eliza’s mare. They would not have to walk to Mr. Halston’s. But the milking cow had been carried off.

  The Indians led Eliza into the forest. This time when she passed between shadow and light it seemed all darkness, and all the beauty she admired had wilted in the summer heat. Eliza was pulled along by her captors, her thoughts ran rampant. Would they defile her, kill her? Would she become one of their slaves or the wife of the one who led her? She trusted that Fiona would go for help. Reverend Hopewell. Halston. Tom, his blacksmith—she believed they all would search for her. And God would not delay in bringing Hayward back to her. Surely he would find her, fight for her, rescue her.

  Not far from River Run they came to a clearing beside a little stream that flowed down from a large outcropping of shale jutting out of the hillside. The Indian who had admired her grabbed her wrists, brought her to the stream, and pushed her down. She moved her bound hands forward and dipped them into the water, gathered some into her palm, and then brought it to her lips. She remained there, on her knees, bent forward over her thighs, with no sense of the stones and sticks beneath her. The burn of tears welled in her eyes, and large drops fell into the dark ribbon of water below her, where she could see her face reflected.

  The Indian reached down and gathered her hair into his fist. She felt his hand tighten against her scalp and tried to rise. All at once, the birds of the forest ceased their chatter. A tense moment followed, and the Indian released her, swinging her around
to meet him. She could not meet his stare. His eyes caused her to fear, and she tried to turn away.

  Suddenly a musket fired from within the trees. The Indian made a guttural sound and fell. At first sight of the blood spreading across his chest and the lifeless eyes staring up at her, Eliza scrambled away. The other Indian rushed at her with his tomahawk raised, then yelped when a bullet plunged into his throat. Blood gushed from his mouth, his eyes widened, and he stumbled back to join his leader on the ground.

  Through columns of dusty sunlight, Eliza saw Halston step forward carrying his musket. Tom, his blacksmith, hurried beside him with a long rifle. When Halston reached her, he drew his knife and cut loose her bindings. Then he reloaded his musket, grasped her hand and hurried with her through the trees. Eliza’s gown caught on a branch, and she stopped to yank it free. A whimpering sound arrested them both, and Halston moved her beside Tom.

  He brought his musket forward. “Come out of there.”

  A young woman with hair the color of an October pumpkin looked out between the leaves in the bramble, her eyes swimming with fear. She crept forward.

  Halston lowered his weapon. “Come on out. No one will hurt you.”

  A mass of bedraggled locks fell over the young woman’s shoulders and down her back, and her sunburned face was smudged with dirt and grime. Her clothes were stained and tattered and hung on a frame emaciated by hunger. Dark circles lay beneath her green eyes.

  Weak from a trial Eliza could not possibly imagine anyone surviving, the unfortunate captive took a halting step forward. Her knees buckled as if a heavy weight were tied to her body. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed. Halston caught her and laid her on the ground.

  The girl’s dress hung in shreds along her legs, where Eliza saw bruises and cuts. Her feet were bare, blackened, and bloody from walking without shoes. A deep compassion filled Eliza, and she wondered how long this poor wretch had suffered.

  She brushed back the girl’s hair from her eyes.

  “She’s been sorely abused and half starved,” she said, glancing at Halston. “We must take her back with us.”

  Halston handed Tom his weapon and lifted the girl into his arms. “We must hurry, in case there are more of those renegades hiding in these woods.”

  Eliza’s tawny milking cow lowed. “Oh, my cow!” she cried and hurrying to her, took hold of her halter. Realizing how close she had come to tragedy, Eliza wept a moment, leaning her head against the cow’s velvety neck.

  They made their way back through the forest and across a small meadow leading to the house. Fiona met them at the door, wringing her hands, her eyes misty. Standing beside her, Darcy smiled at Eliza and stretched her arms out to her.

  “Mama!”

  Tears could not be helped, and she lifted Darcy to hug her. “Oh, my little girl! God kept you safe, didn’t he?”

  “From the cat, Mama.”

  Eliza glanced at Fiona. “Indeed, from the cat, little one.”

  “Oh, my dear girl,” Fiona wiped the tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Please tell me you are unharmed. They did not hurt you, did they?” She ran her hands over Eliza’s face and looked at the cut on her neck.

  “Not very.”

  “Oh, they did hurt you.”

  “Believe me, it is just a scratch. You hid with Darcy?”

  “Yes, and when it was safe, I went to Mr. Halston. Thank the Lord they did not take Nell. I see you brought our cow back.”

  A sob escaped Eliza, and she threw her arms around Fiona and embraced her. “You saved Darcy’s life, your own, and mine. How brave you are!”

  When Halston stepped through the door with the girl in his arms, Fiona raised her brows. “And who may this poor child be, sir? My, she is in a sorry shape, to be sure.”

  “The Indians had taken her captive,” answered Eliza. Fiona led Halston to the little room off the kitchen. “I’ll fetch water and ointment for those wounds. Dear me, I cannot imagine what she has been through. Her kin must think her dead.”

  Eliza bit her lip. As I came close to being. She stood beside Fiona as she folded down the bedding. Halston set the girl down. Still she had not opened her eyes. “Once we discover who she is,” said Eliza, “we will help her reunite with her family. For now, let us allow her to rest.”

  When the sun set, candles were kept from the windows so as not to alert any Indians who were near. Every door and window was bolted and locked. Eliza stepped out of a bedroom door still dressed in the olive muslin gown she had donned that morning. Over her arm lay a heap of tawny homespun and a white chemise. Halston sat in the chair near the window in the hall, cleaning the barrel of his musket.

  “Will you stand guard all night, sir?”

  “Tom and I will take turns.” He looked at her. “What is that you have?”

  “Clothes for our guest. She told me her name is Sarah.”

  Halston continued to clean his gun. “Ah, you are thinking of ‘when I was naked you clothed me. When I was hungry you fed me . . .’ ”

  “How can I not?” She looked away when he held her eyes, and left to go downstairs. Sarah sat up against the pillows, a hunk of bread in her hand and a mug of Fiona’s mint tea in the other. The dirt and grime were gone from her face, and her hair was brushed. Darcy sat across from her in a ladder-back chair.

  “It is late. Darcy should be abed.” Eliza laid the clothes down, picked Darcy up, and kissed her cheek. “Thank God tonight, my darling, for not allowing that cat to catch any mice.”

  Darcy placed her little palms against Eliza’s cheeks with her eyes glowing. “I will, Mama. I heard angels’ wings, me and Fonna.”

  Fiona took her from Eliza, and when Eliza was alone with Sarah, she drew the chair up to the bedside. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you for the food. I’ll work it off to repay you.” Sarah had a pleasant lilt to her voice that hinted of the Cornish coast.

  “Never mind that. You are from Cornwall?”

  “I was. Mine is a long story.”

  “You are too weary to tell me more tonight. Perhaps later, when you are feeling up to it. Here are some clothes. I hope Fiona tossed your old ones in the fireplace.”

  “She told me she did. I’ve never looked such a fright in all my life.” Sarah cast her eyes down, looking ashamed. “Thank you for these.” She caressed the cloth. “Aye, but this is fine homespun.”

  “Fiona’s handiwork.”

  “She’s a good woman. Is she indentured?”

  Eliza shook her head. “No. She has been with me since I was baby. Fiona is more like a mother to me than a servant.

  When you are ready, I have paper and ink so that you may write to your family and tell them you are safe.”

  Sarah’s smile vanished and she lowered her eyes. “I have no family.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Please do not send me away. I was indentured to a man who was cruel. I no longer belong to him, but he would claim me out of spite.”

  “Do not worry.” Eliza stood and drew the curtains closed over the window. “If you like, you may stay with us. I could use another pair of hands, and you will never go hungry at River Run . . . that is, if such a life is not beneath your station.”

  Sarah laughed softly. “My station? I am not a lady. Are you sure your husband would not mind me staying?”

  “He is away fighting the British. I am certain he would not object.”

  “I thought the gentleman who rescued you, and carried me, was your husband. He has kind eyes, God bless him.”

  “He is our nearest neighbor . . . Try to sleep. Tomorrow you may tell me more about yourself.” Eliza blew out the candle on the bed table and shut the door behind her. She could tell by the weary look in Sarah’s eyes that her life had been hard and not one she was ready to explain. Eliza decided not to press her. But she hoped that in time Sarah would reveal who and what she was.

  Darkness shrouded the house. Eliza held the candle a bit higher as she ascende
d the stairs. With each step, she mused over the events of the day, how courageous Fiona had been to climb out of hiding with Darcy, saddle Nell, and go for Mr. Halston. He had come to her aid without a minute to lose and saved her from captivity—or death. Grateful, she knew she owed him much. But she wished it had been Hayward instead who had saved her.

  She gripped the banister. Her steps faltered from the pain that gripped her, the longing that always lingered. How much longer could she do without Hayward? How much pain would she have to endure not hearing from him? Would God answer her prayers soon by bringing him home?

  When she reached the upper floor, she met Halston. He looked tired, his eyes weary in the candlelight. “I believe you are safe, Mrs. Morgan. I doubt any more Indians will come this far downriver.”

  “I hope you are right. You should sleep, sir.” She turned to go.

  “Eliza . . .” he stepped closer.

  She looked away. “I am grateful for what you have done, for saving my life.”

  “I would risk myself a thousand times for you.” He reached out and ran his hand along the curve of her jaw. She closed her eyes. His touch eased her. But when she realized what it meant, she stepped back.

  “You mustn’t do that. I am wedded, and no man should . . .”

  He dropped his hand. “Forgive me.”

  Eliza headed to her room, but he stopped her the moment her hand settled over the brass knob. “We have become good friends, and it is hard for me to say goodbye. I am leaving soon to join the Continentals. You shall soon forget me.”