Rapture's Betrayal (2 page)

It was drizzling when Kirsten entered the clearing, clutching a solid tree limb. The man lay in the mud where he'd fallen. Still. Alert for danger, she approached the victim cautiously. She moved to within a few feet of his body and stopped, her stick raised, ready to defend herself against attack. She scanned the tree line before returning her gaze to the felled man.

Her eyes stung with the threat of tears as she studied him. He was a pitiful sight. Rain beat down on his twisted body. He appeared pale and lifeless.

He's dead!
A tear escaped to trail down her cheek.
I'm too late!
She'd risked her life for a dead man.

Then, on impulse, Kirsten gave the body a nudge with her stick, and the man moved. Encouraged, she crouched beside him and placed a trembling hand on his shoulder. Had his chest risen or had she imagined it? She shook him lightly, and then again.

“Mynheer?”
Her whisper was loud in the quiet after the storm. “Are you alive?” Was he friend or foe? She realized it didn't matter which side of the war he was on; he was someone who needed help—her help.

Lightning flashed across the river, followed by the low rumble of distant thunder.

Kirsten stood. “
Mynheer,
speak to me!” she pleaded. “You are alive, aren't you? Please . . . you have to be alive.”

She glared at the man with frustration. “Move—drat you! Show me you're alive!”

Kirsten stared at him, wondering what to do. Whether the man was living or dead, she couldn't just leave him lying here! But if he had already died, what else could she do?

“Please,” she whispered brokenly, “you can't be dead. You don't deserve such an end.” She had a vivid memory of the struggle between the two men, and a chill ran through her as she recalled the hideous face of the one who'd wielded the bayonet.

Suddenly, the man on the ground groaned. Surprised from her thoughts, Kirsten bent closer and, with a cry of gladness, carefully eased him onto his back. She experienced an overwhelming rush of pity then. His face revealed that he was young, and she noted that he wore a fringed rifle shirt, which was muddy and torn, and breeches, which fit him snugly and were in worse condition than his shirt.

He's alive!
Kirsten thought, and she grinned. She'd found him in time!

She sobered.
But now what do I do?
How could she move him if he couldn't walk?

After setting down the stick, she grabbed the man's shirt and tugged hard to get him to move. When he didn't respond, she tried again.

“
Mynheer,
speak to me,” she commanded. “I'm a friend. I want to help.” Instinctively, she spoke in Dutch, the language of her people.

The man mumbled, and Kirsten leaned closer to hear him. She gasped when he grabbed her wrist, astonished by his show of strength. She fought to free herself, and he moaned, releasing her to clutch his arm in agony.

Kirsten was alarmed to see the slit in his sleeve near the shoulder. Fresh blood seeped from it. She stared at him, not knowing what to do. The man gazed back, his eyes wide, his lips moving soundlessly. Ashamed, she realized that he was only desperate to be understood.

“What is it? Tell me.” She laid a hand on his brow and spoke to him soothingly.

“Bri . . . hide . . . me,” he gasped.

She frowned. “I cannot understand you. Tell me again.” She placed her ear nearer to his lips and was barely able to make out his next words.

“Please . . . hide . . . me . . . Brit . . . sh . . .” The man spoke English, and Kirsten understood him.

He wanted her to hide him from the British! She knew then that he was a Continental soldier. Remembering the redcoats at the tavern, Kirsten stood, terrified, half expecting to see that they were suddenly surrounded.

She mentally berated herself. It was foolish to think that the British would have to hide from a woman and a wounded man.

Her gaze returned to the injured soldier, whose eyes were open and glazed as he struggled to see her. Moved by his plight, Kirsten hunkered down and touched his arm. She started but didn't withdraw when his fingers latched onto her hand.

She reassured him in English. “I'm going to help you. Do you understand?”

The man nodded. She saw him relax and close his eyes.

Studying him, Kirsten bit her lip. “Can you walk?” she asked softly. There was movement, a barely perceptible negative shake of his head. “Then, I shall have to leave you for a while. To get a wagon.” His dark eyes opened with alarm, and Kirsten patted his hand. “Relax. I promise I'll be back as soon as I can.”

She searched the area for a place to hide him. “We had better get you into the bushes. That man”—she shuddered—“he may come back.”

The soldier tried to sit up, and Kirsten moved to help him. He howled in pain, groping for his right leg. To her horror, she saw a second wound. Blood was spurting from his thigh.

“My God!” she breathed.

No wonder he can't walk,
she thought. If he attempted it in his condition, he'd bleed to death. She'd have to leave him until she could return with the wagon.

But first she had to stop the flow of blood; he'd never survive until her return if she didn't. Kirsten tore two strips from the hem of her shirt, stopping once to breathe deeply. The sight of so much blood made her woozy. She brushed her hair back with shaking fingers. Then, using both hands, she pinched the edges of the leg wound closed and bore down with a steady pressure. His warm red blood drained between her fingers, filling her with alarm.

Finally, the stream slowed and then stopped. Kirsten breathed easier.

She'd done it! She'd stopped the bleeding! She bound the limb above the wound and then bandaged the gash itself.
Please God,
she prayed silently,
let him live!

The soldier seemed to be resting quietly now.
A good sign,
she thought. Hopefully, in passing out, he had escaped the worst of the pain.

Kirsten felt shaky. She'd never had to hurt anyone before; it brought little comfort to her to know that doing so had been necessary.

“I hate to leave you here, but I have no choice. You must save your strength.” She spoke aloud, thinking that somehow, even though unconscious, the man would understand. “When I get back, we'll get you in the wagon. I don't know how we'll manage, but we will.”

Kirsten was soothed by her own words as she made light of the upcoming struggle. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you, but I had to . . .” She went to the river and rinsed her hands.

The soldier needed her; she wouldn't let him down. “You are going to live,” she vowed as she returned to his side.

She looked for a place to hide him, then decided she'd cover him up and leave him where he lay. She found several suitable branches with leaves intact, and shielded him with the leafy foliage.

After a last peek at the wounded man, Kirsten felt satisfied. She headed for home, her pace hastened by concern.

 

 

“Three o'clock and all's well!” The
klapperman'
s voice rang out in the silence of the rain-washed night. Kirsten was on the Ackermans' farm when she heard the familiar sound. She quickly hid behind the barn. The last thing she needed was to be discovered by the man making his rounds. Garret Vandervelt was a friend of her father's and would no doubt see that she got home—and that her father knew of her escapade.

Vandervelt carried his lighted lantern and a timepiece—a brass hourglass. Kirsten watched him set his hourglass on the Ackerman's
stoep
before he pulled out his rattle, or
klapper,
from his coat pocket.

He shook the
klapper
once, before putting it away. Vandervelt then proceeded to the neighboring farm, where he'd repeat the ritual. The sound of his voice would be heard at each home in Hoppertown every hour until dawn, Kirsten knew, and she was relieved to see him go none the wiser as to her presence. His deep cry was reassuring to the Hoppertown villagers, for it warned all, housekeepers and convicts alike, that he was on the watch to keep everyone safe.

Once the rattle-watch was out of sight, Kirsten left her hiding place. Moments later, she was home and inside her father's barn.

“Pieter?” Her voice was but a whisper in the dark interior of the stable. There was no sign of the groom.

A horse nickered from the nearest stall, and Kirsten smiled and slipped inside the cubicle to stroke the mare's neck. “Easy, girl. It's only me.”

The sleek hair of the horse felt smooth against her palm. The mare snorted in pleasure at the young woman's touch, and Kirsten laughed softly, her spirits rising.

But dawn was fast approaching, and she realized that she had much to do before daybreak. The smile left her face as she gave the horse one more pat. “Sorry, girl, not this time.”

The mare nudged Kirsten with her nose as she turned to leave. She studied the bay gelding snorting restlessly in the opposite stall, and then she glanced at the mare, whose big eyes seemed to plead with her.

“But you understand, Hilga, don't you?” she murmured to the mare. “If I let you come, you have to be quiet.” She found the halter and slipped it over Hilga's head. “I'm depending on you now. Don't let me down. The man's life is at stake.”

Closing her eyes, Kirsten rested her head against the horse's side. “He deserves to live, girl. No one deserves to die that way.” She sighed and lifted her head, stroking the mare's chestnut coat. “He needs us, Hilga. It's up to us girls to see that he makes it.”

The moon broke through the clouds as the wagon wheels creaked over the muddy road. Kirsten gripped the reins fiercely. It had been a hair-raising experience, hitching up the wagon and escaping the farm without sound.
But we did it!
she thought smiling at the horse.

The worst of it hadn't ended there, though. Twice the wagon had become stuck in the mud on the journey through the woods. Kirsten was glad she'd chosen Hilga; the mare's docile nature had made things easier. Both times, the young woman had climbed down from the wooden seat and had urged the horse on with soft words and a hard tug on the reins. Each time the cart had rolled free of the mire, Kirsten had made a silent vow to reward the animal.

The wind stirred the treetops, sending a cascade of cold water down upon woman and horse. Kirsten had no idea how much time had elapsed since she had left the Continental soldier. The treacherous condition of the turnpike forced her to a slow, steady pace, which made the journey nerve-wracking. She was anxious to get to him.

Was he all right?

Kirsten pulled the wagon off the road and onto the narrow path, silently praying that the cart would fit past the trees and bushes. She'd have to drag the soldier several yards if it didn't. She swallowed hard. Perhaps he wouldn't survive that ordeal.

The cart fit through the thicket easily. Kirsten halted the vehicle under a tree and jumped down to secure the mare. Moving toward the mound of branches she had left, she was shocked to find that they'd been disturbed. Her blood ran cold when she spied a trench in the mud leading to a coppice.

Had the attacker come back to finish off his victim? That thought was just too terrible, too awful for her to take in. Kirsten's stomach heaved. Trembling, she advanced, parting the bushes to peer inside.

“Thank God!” A quick check told her the man was still alive. He must have dragged himself through the mud. Her relief was short-lived when she noted fresh blood on his pantleg. His thigh was bleeding again; the crimson stain appeared black against the muslin bindings.

“You fool,” she scolded. She wasn't angry; she was too happy and relieved to find her patient alive. The wind had been fierce; no doubt it had disturbed his makeshift cover. The poor man must have awakened and sought refuge elsewhere.

Tearing a fresh strip from her shirt's hem, Kirsten rebound the wound. She didn't know how she'd explain the ruined garment, but she'd think of something. If not, she could always bury the shirt in the woods.

How was she going to move the soldier, though? Unconscious, he was dead weight. If she could wake him, she could help him to his feet. She tried rousing him with a light shake and then shook him harder when he didn't move. When she again failed to rouse him, Kirsten stood, tears of frustration coming to her eyes.
What am I going to do?

There was a rope in the wagon. It could be slipped under his arms and tied so he could be hoisted onto the wooden platform.
It just might work!
She had to try; there was no other choice. Kirsten returned to the wagon and untied the horse.

She was so cold! The wind had died down, but she was soaked to the skin. She glanced at the man lying senseless. If she was cold, what about him? She shivered. There was no time to lose—he could be dying.

She sprang into action. Guiding the mare through the mud to the small copse and then crouching beside the injured man, she again tried to wake him. This time he moaned. There would be no help from that quarter, she realized. It was entirely up to her to save him.

“
Mynheer?
It's me—Kirsten. I'm back. I brought the wagon just as I promised. See?” The man blinked once and then his eyes closed. Kirsten rose, retrieving the rope. After directing a few gentle words to the faithful mare, she returned to him. His eyes were open.

“I have a rope,” she explained, “and I'm going to tie it around your chest.” The man struggled to sit up. Suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of warmth, Kirsten continued. “I don't want to hurt you, but I'm afraid I have to. When I get you to the barn, I'll see to your wounds and you'll feel better.” She paused. “Can you lift up this arm? That's it!”