His enemy continued the tirade. “You knew she was guilty, and yet you let her run—nay, you aided her in fleeing the punishment she deserves.”
Paul’s accusation pressed Henry’s hatred deeper.
Guilty only of acting with courage in the defense of that which she believed to be right. Naught else. Henry glanced up, praying the darkness would deepen farther and fully shield him from view of the one who wished death upon him.
Up and across, down and backward, the jangle of sword and bayonet moved across the yard and echoed down the well as they searched the forsaken homestead. The dogs sniffed and barked. Paul shouted at Brown and Ward to check the barn again while he searched the yard one last time.
Henry clutched the rope so tight that liquid could have dripped from the brittle fibers. Footsteps approached. ’Twas as if Paul knew where he hid. Surely he must. For though Paul was only a year behind him in age, his skills as a soldier were second only to his own. But pride had always weakened the strength of Paul’s abilities. The selfsame pride that had led to Captain Samuel Martin’s death.
Henry strangled a groan in his throat, the face of his despised superior rearing to life from the graveyard of memory. His stomach turned and he breathed out. Samuel could no longer plague him. God willing, in time, neither would Paul.
Just then, Stockton neared the well and Henry ground his teeth. Lord, do not let him find me.
Paul’s shadowed figure peered in and Henry stilled every muscle. Closing his eyes, Henry prayed as if his salvation depended upon it. For certainly his earthly salvation did. At once the figure turned back, yelling. “Anything?” Paul’s silhouette disappeared and Henry allowed his lungs to drag in slow, quiet breaths.
“No, sir,” Jimmy Brown answered. “Only his coat.” The young soldier sounded more distressed than pleased.
Such a good boy you are, Jimmy.
“Could you worthless dogs not smell him out?” Paul cursed. “Blast it all! He could not have vanished. Brown, I need you and Ward to continue south until you reach the river. Return to camp before nightfall then report to me—tell no one else of this. We must be sure we’ve checked all avenues of escape. I refuse to return empty handed.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Be quick about it!”
The pathetic message hidden in Paul’s words gave away everything. So, Ezra Stockton hadn’t ordered them after him? This was Paul’s doing, and asking for more men meant alerting his father of what he planned to do. Henry allowed a smile to breach his lips while he enjoyed the sweet taste of upsetting the enemy. Then that was how he’d risen in Ezra Stockton’s favor and how Paul had fallen. Following orders was a soldier’s duty. Somehow, Paul had never understood that.
Receding sounds of boots and dogs lasted only a moment until finally all was silent. At long last Henry allowed his starving lungs to indulge fully in the stale air that surrounded him. He might have gagged at the stench if his relief hadn’t overpowered every other sense.
He stood straighter and looked down at his boots now covered to the ankle in muddy water. The sun rested high in the heavens, the heat of summer reaching down to find him in the pleasant shade of the earth. He need only wait until nightfall. Then, if he could negotiate with his unwilling arm, he might make it back out, and God willing, journey the last twenty miles to Sandwich. His arm throbbed until his teeth nearly cracked from keeping his jaw clenched against the pain. If only the wrappings hadn’t unraveled in his attempt to escape. He looked up again, the blood on his fingers suddenly forcing him to reevaluate his plan.
He debated the alternatives while his arm pled for mercy. Climbing out now, even if to bandage his wound, could bring the end upon him. Paul might even now be stroking his pistol in the shadows of the wood. He couldn’t have missed the drops of blood that no doubt dotted the ground. How the dogs had missed them Henry would never know. Tender mercies of God no doubt.
Henry peered up. Revealing himself was too much of a risk. His arm throbbed, forcing the final decision. Emerging from this blessed hiding spot could mean the noose, but staying here much longer meant certain death.
A prayer at his lips, Henry grasped hold of the rope, pressed his back against one side, his foot against the other and started upward.
The closer he inched to sunlight, the more fervent he prayed. Lord, let me emerge to find no one waiting.
Henry slowed when the warmth of the sun crested his hair and he peered over the ledge just enough to allow his vision to comb the trees. Green leaves, brown tree trunks, bushes, dirt. Nothing else. That he could see…
With a giant heave, he hoisted his legs over the edge and fell to his knees, his muscles cramping. Bathed in the yellow light of mid-day, Henry grimaced as he peeled the red-soaked cloth from the gash in his arm. A thousand curses collided on his tongue. This was no minor wound. He needed a doctor. The wrap from two days ago had stayed the bleeding temporarily, and it seemed the wound nearly closed on its own, but after today’s maltreatment, it would need to be stitched.
A crack echoed in the woods and Henry spun. The click of a weapon preparing to fire stopped his blood. He hurled to his feet and dashed for the cabin, lunging against the floor beneath the clouded window. Dust from the ground billowed around him in the shafts of sunlight. Henry suppressed a growl in his throat, working his jaw back and forth as he counted the ways his enemy had wronged him. But such thoughts only heated—and wasted—his precious blood.
When he’d scanned the room and found nothing to use as a weapon, he stilled, training every thought on the sounds outside the walls of his battered fortress. No brushing of boots against the ground, no heaving breath. Only the music of birds and wind-swept branches played on the breeze.
Henry pushed up and propped himself against the wall. Was he a coward for running? In that moment his mind played tricks upon him as his vision landed upon a pair of pale green eyes, worn and tired, but so full of maternal love his spirit tore within him. What did it matter if he were killed? Now that his mother and sisters were freed from their crippled bodies they no longer needed his pay—no longer shed tears for what he’d done.
He stopped there. The recollections threatened to yank his beating heart from his chest. Yet, somehow, the memories refused to be ignored. He rubbed the few smallpox scars on his face, recalling Julia’s bright smile and Jane’s song-like voice. If not for him, if not for his foolishness, they would have lived. Or at least, they would not have died alone.
Senses ever alert, Henry froze as the anticipated footsteps drew near. He pushed himself to his feet, keeping his back against the wall. Fists clenched, stance wide, the pain in his arm receded as he prepared for the attacker to become the attacked.
“Donaldson,” Paul yelled. “You’re a fool. You should have known I would wait for you.”
Just then he dove through the door. Henry lunged and rammed his shoulder into Paul, at the same time clutching the wrist of the hand that gripped the ready pistol. Paul pushed against him, but the chorus of recent ills pumped iron through Henry’s veins. He slammed him against the opposite wall and wedged his forearm just beneath Paul’s jaw.
“I did know you waited.” Hot breath seethed from Henry’s mouth. He pressed harder, enjoying the way Paul’s throat worked for breath against his arm.