Ride the Fire (22 page)

It was next to impossible for a party that included seven horses and fifteen people, seven of whom were children, to move soundlessly through the forest and leave no tracks. Their only hope rested in speed. With the Delaware war party so close he could almost taste them, Nicholas had moved his saddle back to the stallion, ridden it with Bethie and Belle, while the remaining horses, including Rona and Rosa, each bore one child and one adult. Stopping only when Nicholas needed to scout ahead, they had alternated between a canter and a walk all night.

Now the fort was visible upriver, its high earthen walk rising almost from the riverbank. He had already scouted the area, knew that the cabins in the Upper Town and Lower Town around the fort had been burned to the ground, likely the work of soldiers determined not to give the enemy any place to take cover. The hilly forest on all sides was filled with encamped Delaware and Shawnee. Severe erosion showed that the river had run high against the ramparts during the spring freshet, but the Monongahela was now well within its banks.

Which was good, because they were about to cross it. Nicholas had chosen a spot downriver from most of the Indian encampments but within sight of the fort’s walls. He wanted the soldiers to see them, to cover them with their long rifles as they crossed the deep water, rode for the gates. Shingiss, leader of the Delaware, was likely too smart a tactician to slaughter women and children within full view of British soldiers. But Nicholas didn’t want to take a chance. They needed to get across the river quickly, come under the protection of the fort’s artillery and marksmen before anyone could attack.

“We’ll cross here, head for the sally port.” Nicholas nudged Zeus down the muddy riverbank, dismounted. He turned to the others. “Quickly! Children stay on the horses. Adults swim alongside. Bethie, you’ll ride and hold Belle. I’ll be right beside you.”

She nodded, her sweet face set with a look of determination. The journey had been hard on her, he knew. She had dark circles beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. Dressed in a borrowed linsey-woolsey gown, she looked thinner than when they’d set out. But she had not wavered. She had not complained. She had even saved his life.

Nicholas led the stallion to the river’s edge and into the icy current, the others behind him. He heard Bethie’s quick intake of breath as the water reached her thighs. “Belle’s no’ goin’ to like this much. I willna be able to keep her quiet.”

As soon as she touched the cold water, the baby began to cry.

“It will be all right. We’re almost there. When we get to the other side, ride straight for the sally port. Can you see it?” He pointed to an angular wall on the river’s edge.

Her teeth chattered. “Aye.”

“Pass through the opening in that wall, and there’s a drawbridge. Ride across.”

The current was strong but not dangerous. Zeus, accustomed to crossing rivers, had no difficulty mastering the water, even with Bethie on his back.

Behind them, the youngest Calhoun child was crying. Then Nicholas heard a frightened whinny. One of the horses remained on the riverbank. A high-strung stallion, it shied away from the water, threatened to rear. The Wallace woman kept a tight hand on its bridle, but the stallion refused to enter the river. On its back sat the Wallaces’ daughter, a girl of about seven. She clutched its mane, a look of terror on her face.

Bethie saw the woman’s predicament, saw that Master Wallace was already deep in the river with their youngest child, a boy. “She needs your help, Nicholas. Belle and I will be fine.”

Then he was gone, swimming in strong strokes back toward the bank. Bethie watched over her shoulder as he reached the shore, took Goody Wallace’s shawl, wrapped it over the stallion’s head, pulled the terrified animal into the water. Then Bethie turned her attention to the far side of the river, which slowly drew closer.

Something whistled past her from behind, hit the water beside her.

Her head spun around, just as another arrow landed harmlessly to her left.

Her heart lurched. Behind her, frightened women and children screamed.

A war party stood beneath the eaves of the forest behind them, dozens of warriors, their faces painted vermilion.

The Delaware war party.

A shout went up from the grassy walls.

The soldiers had spotted them.

Shots rang out.

Abruptly the arrows ceased.

Bethie hazarded a glance at the riverbank, saw the war party running for the cover of the trees. Then she felt the stallion’s hooves strike ground. The horse labored through the chest-deep water and was soon fighting its way up the steep, muddy bank.

The Indians were firing from the cover of the trees!

More shots from the fort.

She turned the stallion’s head toward the fort, kicked in her heels. The horse sprang forward at a full gallop. From the earthen ramparts above, soldiers shouted encouragement, waved them on. “Ride! Hurry! Ride!”

She was close enough now that the walls of the fort blocked the light of the rising sun.

The sally port was before her.

“Ride!”

Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten.

She guided the stallion through the portal, saw the drawbridge, which the soldiers had already opened for them. Cheers went up around her as, one by one, the horses and their wet riders crossed the bridge, entered the safety of the fort. Last of all came Nicholas riding with Goody Wallace and her little girl.

Weak with relief, Bethie bent over the stallion’s neck, patted its wet shoulder, sent a silent prayer of thanksgiving winging skyward. In her arms, Belle wailed indignantly, a beautiful sound that made Bethie smile.

They were alive. They were all alive.

Strong hands reached up, lifted her from the saddle, lowered her to the ground.

And then Nicholas was before her, his wet hair clinging to his chest, his chin dark with stubble, his eyes full of concern for her.

Later she would not be able to say whether he’d kissed her first or she had kissed him. But as they claimed one another with lips and tongue, she knew she’d never tasted anything sweeter.

Nicholas leaned against the closed door, crossed his arms, bit back his reply. He knew that Indians weren’t the only ones capable of barbarity, but now was not the time to argue. “I assume Governor Amherst has reinforcements on the way.”

Ecuyer gave a rather ungentlemanly snort, and in his frustration his slight French accent seeped through. Swiss by birth, he seemed to strive to be more English than Parliament. “Our esteemed commander believes we are exaggerating the strength of the enemy and giving up hard-fought ground too easily. He thinks the fighting is over and the war won. Still, Dalyell is on his way to Fort Detroit with Roger’s Ranging Company, and Colonel Bouquet is supposedly marching toward us with his regiment of Scottish Highlanders—all told about eight hundred men.”

Against a few thousand Indians—Ottawa, Ojibwe, Wyandot, Potawatomi, Shawnee, Seneca, Chippewa, Sauk, Kikkapoo and Miami—all fighting together to protect their homeland against invading whites. Roger’s Rangers and Highland Scots were formidable in a fight, but they weren’t invincible.

“How many men do you have?”

Ecuyer turned away from the window, faced Nicholas, his gaze traveling over Nicholas’s trail-worn clothing. “We’re built to hold one thousand, but I’ve got only three hundred, counting traders, farmers and backwoodsmen—the riffraff of a colony spawned in hell. They bring women and children, useless people who consume our resources but cannot fight! In all, His Majesty is feeding nearly four hundred twenty mouths each day. We’re desperately short of wood and flour. If we’re put to hard siege like Gladwin, we won’t last long.”

A
colony spawned in hell.
Ecuyer’s loathing for those beneath his social station wasn’t unusual, but under these circumstances, Nicholas found it particularly distasteful. On the frontier, such biases were a luxury none of them could afford. Braddock’s arrogance and subsequent defeat ought to have been proof enough of that.

“What of artillery? I saw a few six-pounders on the walls.”

“We can mount as many as eighteen cannon, but I’ve half that—three six-pounders, twice as many three-pounders.”

Better than Nicholas had hoped, but not terribly useful in a siege. Shingiss could simply cordon off the fort, keep his warriors out of range and wait until starvation forced Ecuyer to surrender. Then it would be an outright slaughter. “Perhaps it would be wise to begin rationing now.”

Ecuyer turned away from the window, met his gaze. “Aye, a sensible plan. I’d like to send parties out to gather spelt and what food they can from the King’s Garden. I’d appreciate it if you could oversee those operations, Nicholas. I’ve been told there’s no Englishman alive who is stealthier or knows the way of the heathen better than you.”

So this was why Ecuyer had wanted to speak with him alone. The two of them had never really known each other, never been more than acquaintances. Nicholas had thought it odd to receive a summons to the commander’s office the moment he’d arrived. “We’ll see.”

Ecuyer took a step toward him, betrayed his eagerness. “I’m ready to restore your rank as a first lieutenant, put all of our resources at your disposal.”

“I didn’t come here to join your regiment.”

Ecuyer’s nostrils flared ever so slightly and he spoke in clipped syllables. “Surely you intend to fight!”

“If Shingiss cannot be persuaded to leave in peace, there will be no choice for any of us but to fight.” Ecuyer seemed to relax at this. “Shingiss and Turtle’s Heart have no intention of leaving. They’ve been encamped for nearly two weeks. They accosted eleven traders at the mouth of Bear Creek two weeks ago, warned them to flee, then ambushed them when they sought safety. Damnable liars, all of them!”

Shingiss
and
Turtle’s Heart. The situation was dire, indeed. Turtle’s Heart was a great orator, a leader who carried tremendous weight with his people. His presence beside his king meant the full might of the united Delaware nation was pitted against them.

As he’d feared, Nicholas had led Bethie from mortal peril into terrible danger.

The weariness of the past week seemed abruptly to catch up with him. “Is there aught else, Captain?”

“Not for now. You’ve had a long and tiring journey. It was damned heroic of you to lead those settlers to safety, I must say.”

“Heroism had nothing to do with it.” He hadn’t intended to rescue anyone.

Ecuyer smiled indulgently. “I’ve set aside quarters for you and your... wife in the officers’ barracks. My men will see that you get whatever you need.”

It was on the tip of Nicholas’s tongue to tell him that Bethie was not his wife in any sense of the word, but he stopped himself. If she weren’t housed with him, she’d find herself sleeping in barracks among ruthless backwoodsmen who hadn’t tupped a woman in years. And after the way he had kissed her in full view of the entire fort, he’d best claim her in some fashion or she would likely find herself the focus of lustful advances from men who thought she was an easy mark. There were, after all, at least three randy men for each woman within these walls. Without a man’s protection, she would be little more than fresh meat thrown to wolves.

“Thank you, Captain. Good day.” Nicholas opened the door to go.

Nicholas jerked his head around, met Ecuyer’s gaze.

“Don’t even think about it!”

“Thank you, Annie. Tis lovely.” Bethie ran her hands over the soft blue linen of her skirts. She’d never owned so fine a gown. Nicholas had bought it for her, along with the new white shift she wore beneath it and the doeskin moccasins on her feet. It must have cost him a fortune in hides. Surely he knew she could never repay him.