The Wolf and the Stag

By Wayne M. Hoy

The year is 1753 and Andrew Brannock has lost his heart to Jane Godfrey in the overpowering passion of youth only to find she is betrothed to another. Andrew flees England for the colonies in search of a new life amid the wild untamed beauty of Americas frontier, vowing to forget Jane forever.

Through the years marriage brings contentment to Jane and with it a daughter, Megan, whose beauty is shadowed only by that of her mother. But, alas, misfortune befalls forcing the family to make their own pilgrimage across the ocean and the untamed wilderness. And there to safeguard and guide them on their journey is none other than Andrew Brannock now a legend among the Indian Nation and his son Christian, a darkly handsome borderman, half Indian himself.

They have been warned of the perils awaiting them in the vast, unknown wilderness, and Megans dark beauty does not go unnoticed by Christian, as well as the renegade whites that make their living stealing and selling white women into slavery.

With the stubborn determination of youth, Megan shuns the wilderness, vowing never to succumb to its beauty . . . until she is forced to place her life in the hands of the silent, powerful borderman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463419400

Wayne M. Hoy

Wayne M. Hoy presently resides in Southern Indiana with his wife of 62 years. A retired Police Lieutenant and father of nine, Wayne has taught a wide range of courses in criminal justice during his law enforcement career. His diverse education has supplied him with an expertise in many areas and he is an educator in the field of Theology as well. In his spare time, he indulges his passion for writing and researching settings for his historical romances, which include, The Wolf and the Stag, The Miniature, Appeal to Honor, Banners of Canvas, Fire in the Sky, Lone Star Justice, Ambush at Piñon Canyon, Day of the Outlaw, The Long Way Home, Where Eagles Dare, The Lady and ‘The Eagle’, The Eagle’s Wing, Casey Sue Thornton, A Chance Encounter and his latest, An Occasion of Valor.

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The Wolf and the Stag

Wayne M. Hoy

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© 2011 Wayne M. Hoy. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/10/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-1940-0 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

1734

Prologue

1753

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

1771

CHAPTER VIII

1773

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

1734

Prologue

The girl tossed her blond head so the bright curls splashed about her smooth cheeks. La, la, M’sieur Laffont, she giggled. Grasping the skirts of her heavy velvet habit, she raced up the gentle incline to a huge sweet gum. There she halted breathlessly, gazing at him from the corner of her eye. Deliberately her arms encircled the tree and she pressed against its coarse bark as if it were instead the smooth skin of a lover.

Ahh, Madame, the young man said, with a haughty tilt of his chin skyward. Your wooden cavalier will fare ill well to warm you I wager, and would you not think my belly t’would make a softer mattress?

The color deepened in the girl’s cheeks, yet she gamely met his eye. How wickedly saucy you are m’sieur! she breathed.

Men are never saucy, he rebuked. Coarse yes, but never saucy. Come, I’ll soon set you afire!

Indeed? Try if you can! she twittered, and darted away.

He gave a gleeful shout, and within a few paces caught up to her. Squealing with feigned hysteria, she whirled, and catching the facings of his coat as his arms went about her, drug him backward onto the thick cushion of grass.

He lay over her, weight braced upon his elbows, and she gazed up at him with unabashed yearning.

Heloise, he breathed, I—need you so!

Oh, Henri, she sighed, tiny nostrils flaring with her quickened breath. Yes, yes, she moaned, shamelessly against the softness of his lips as his mouth covered hers.

The sun, bright and golden, slanting through the leaves overhead on this late April morning, stamped strange weaving lights upon her closed eyelids as his lips sought the hollow of her throat in a burning kiss.

Suddenly a dark shadow fell across her face and she opened her eyes. She saw silhouetted above her, the black outline of a head with its ragged topnotch from which feathers protruded, and she screamed.

* * *

Heloise Laffont was not certain why she was still alive. She sat in a crumpled heap upon the damp leaves in the very spot where she had been jerked to a halt. Perhaps it was her exhaustion, a bone deep fatigue, benumbing the dark terrible thoughts pervading her mind since early morning that allowed her to reason her continued existence. She had survived. Yet a part deep within rebuked her survival and a tremor passed over her as the horrible images came again. Henri, her husband of only two months, young and so splendidly handsome, was dead, his skull split open like a ripe melon by an Iroquois war club right before her horrified gaze. She clamped her eyes tightly closed as an anguished cry burst within her, a cry of both fury and pain that rent her soul. However, it was only a soft moan, hardly audible to the others, that escaped her lips.

A hand shook her roughly and she opened her eyes. For a moment, as she struggled to clear her thoughts, Heloise could only stare uncomprehending at the face, streaked with ochre and black, from which ebony eyes, narrowed to a slit, peered stoically back at her.

What do you want?! she demanded, with a sudden, new found defiance. She made little effort to conceal her revulsion.

The Indian’s gaze remained unfathomable as he dropped a dry flatcake into her lap.

Ugh! he muttered, followed by a terse command which she construed to mean that she was to eat.

Heloise bit into the hard cake, conscious suddenly of her hunger. As she stuffed the dry, nearly tasteless cake into her mouth, her gaze darted over the others. There were six Indians and Madame Le Moyne, the wife of the Mayor of Longueuil across the river from Montreal where Heloise and Henri lived. But Henri was dead, she sniffed, balling her fingers into tiny fists, and she was a captive.

Two of the savages carried matchlock muskets, their stocks scared and worn. The other four, she noted, were armed only with bow and arrow. Though they lounged idly along the trail, there was an animal keenness in their seemingly causal recumbency.

Heloise’s eyes sought out the warrior who had brought her the flatcake. Her eyes, tight with pain, closed upon the tomahawk stuffed in his belt, saw the dark russet stain covering its blade.

‘Oh my fine and noble Henri,’ she sobbed, silently, and her eyes were irresistibly drawn to Madame Le Moyne. Her fellow captive, several years older than Heloise, sat with head bowed as she rocked back and forth, and Heloise wondered if the woman even knew she was there.

The Indian stood and gave the leather thong fastened to the bindings about Heloise’s wrists a hard tug, grunting a command as he did so. When Heloise didn’t respond at once, he jerked viciously on the strap yanking her arms upward and sending her sprawling upon the ground. Heloise gritted her teeth feeling as though her arms had been wrenched from their sockets, but she did not cry out. Instead a deep loathing came over her and a burning hatred shown in the eyes she raised upward to meet the Indian’s. He returned her stare with cold and unfeeling eyes.

* * *

Single file she trudged along the overgrown path behind the tall form of the Indian. Somewhere behind her trailed Madame Le Moyne, bound as herself, hands before her and pulled along by a tether strap. They were being driven along with great haste and Heloise’s hopes lifted. After all, she reasoned, Madame Le Moyne’s husband was an important figure. He would not hesitate to form up the militia. Perhaps pursuit was already on its way.

Heloise was unable to protect herself from overhanging branches and the thorny vines and briers that scratched the soft whiteness of her cheeks and rent the rich velvet fabric of her habit. Nor could she keep her skirts from beneath her feet and stumbled repeatedly. She fell to her knees on several occasions, ripping a great gap in the hem of her gown. Each time she stumbled, her captor would yank upon the strap tied to her wrists. Before long they were bleeding. Finally, with a helpless grunt, Heloise flopped hard upon her stomach, breath knocked from her lungs. When she did not immediately get to her feet the Indian grabbed the tether with both hands and drug her several feet along the path. The thong dug painfully into the soft skin of her wrists. The Indian growled an angry command, but Heloise only lay there coughing, trying to catch her breath.

The Indian’s mouth turned downward and cursing beneath his breath, he swung from her into the woods. With one swift yank he broke a branch as thick as his finger from a tree. He stalked back to her and without another word brought the bough whistling down across her back.

Oh—damn—you! she sputtered.

He struck her again before she managed to struggle to her feet. Standing erect she raised her head defiantly giving him a look of cold scorn. The warrior lifted the switch as though he would strike her a third time. She did not flinch, however, and refused to lower her gaze. The Indian stood glaring at her for a long moment. Abruptly he tossed the branch aside. He pulled a thong from a pouch at his side and tied it about her waist. Heloise held her breath as he did so, not certain of his intention. Deliberately he crouched in front of her, and before she could react, reached between her legs and caught the back hem of her skirt, pulling it up and stuffing it through the thong in front. He stepped back and peered down at her slim stockinged ankles and calves. He said something and the others guffawed loudly. Though her face flamed a bright red, Heloise squared her shoulders recalcitrantly.

Heloise kept her gaze on her feet as she walked. Admittedly travel was much easier with her skirts pulled up between her legs, even though the briers stung her ankles and snagged a hundred tiny tears in her stockings. She ceased to care too, that she must look like the washerwomen of Paris. Trodding relentlessly along, placing one foot ahead of the other unthinkingly, she allowed herself to ponder her predicament. She had heard many frightening stories of kidnapped women being adopted into an Indian tribe, living their lives as an Indian. She glanced at the broad back of the warrior in front of her and shivered.

What did it matter now anyway, Heloise decided and drawing a deep breath, heart heavy within her breast, recalled that last morning with Henri three days ago. She sighed. It seemed now, an eternity.

She bit her lip, realizing now how reckless they had been in slipping away to be alone. See, she rebuked herself, what your selfishness produced, for she blamed herself. It was her own shameful carnal desires that had caused it all. But they had had so little time together—to be husband and wife, having to share her parents’ cramped quarters since their marriage two months ago on Heloise’s seventeenth birthday. Far from either of their minds at the time, was any thought of marauding Indians. Heloise closed her eyes, seeing again the events of that terrible morning. Heloise shook her head violently, unable to face again the ghastly vision of her dead husband.

* * *

The moon rose low on the horizon, a pale yellow tinted with orange. A stiff breeze stirred the trees overhead, sighing through branches thick with new growth. Heloise lay on her side on the cold damp ground, legs drawn up to her chest. Had her blistered feet not ached so, the flickering flames of the tiny fire would surely have lured her to sleep, so weary was she. But she only lay there, teeth set firmly, trying to will the pain away. She rolled her eyes toward the sleeping form of her captor only a few feet away. The strap binding her wrists lay slack on the ground, its end fastened about the warrior’s ankle.

As evening had come upon them that first day of her capture, Heloise had been filled with terror, knowing that she and Madame Le Moyne would surely be ravaged when they stopped for the night, perhaps passed from one swarthy-faced savage’s bed to another. Although Heloise lay in dread throughout that night and most of the two following, none of the savages came near her. Nevertheless, she held her breath, waiting fearfully, each time one of the Indians stirred.

Slowly as she lay there the tears came, welling in her eyes and spilling silently down her cheeks. For a long time she lay unmoving, hearing but not listening to the forest sounds around her. Finally, her eyelids drooped closed. Long after sleep came, firelight still glistened on the wetness clinging to her dark lashes.

* * *

Near mid-morning the land began to slope away. All along the way there were rolling hills and ridges over which the faint trail ran, but for the past day Heloise had been conscious they were treading an incline, though barely discernible under the tall trees. Now she recognized they were working their way downward. As they wove their way through stands of aspen and yellow birch, past clusters of hemlock and larch they abruptly came upon a meadow already high in grass. Heloise, peering out over the trees, suddenly halted. Her captor, feeling her lag, jerked sharply on the tether strap and she stumbled ahead. But not before her eyes, wide and staring, saw the brown muddy creek and beyond, like giant overturned canoes, the longhouses of the Iroquois village.

Heloise trudged along with bowed head. The sight of the Indian village had brought home to her, with stark verity, the hopelessness of her plight. It was at that moment the realization came that pursuit would not come and she would never see Longueuil or her family again.

It was after noon when the party reached the village sited on a neck of land where the creek made a sweeping turn. A runner had gone ahead with the news of their arrival and most of the inhabitants were gathered near the landward entrance when they approached. Several women, many of whom wore no covering above their waist, pushed close and children ran in among the group, poking the prisoners with sticks.

The warriors, making no effort to keep them away, began to dance and whoop loudly. Heloise peered back over her shoulder trying to catch sight of Madame Le Moyne. The woman staggered along blindly, hands covering her face as she wailed hoarsely. Though she continued looking about in dismay, Heloise kept her head proudly erect, even when a woman reached to grab a strand of her blond hair.

The two women were led through the village, halting before one of the longhouses. They huddled there as the people of the village gathered about. Madame Le Moyne still wailed pitifully, though her cries had diminished in volume. Heloise was conscious of much conversation among the Indian women, but she could not make sense of it. Then after some time one of the women pushed her way into the space surrounding the captives. Heloise watched her warily as she came nearer, but she turned her back to Heloise, facing the others. She began to speak at length, her voice rising and falling as she spoke. There was much nodding of assent from the crowd and in a moment the woman turned and walked up to the tall warrior holding Heloise’s tether strap. She grunted and after a moment’s hesitation, he handed the strap to her. The woman started off without looking at Heloise, pulling her through the crowd.

Heloise was led to a longhouse at the far end of the village. She blinked when she first entered the longhouse for the light was dim, having come in from the bright sun. A small fire crackled in the center of the floor and smoke clung in a thick cloud under the ceiling beams. After awhile Heloise could see that the longhouse extended quite some length and she recognized several families must live here. She made out compartments lining the walls that, she guessed, were meant to define each family’s space. Heloise stood surveying the place. Long strings of dried corn and crescents of dried squash hung from what she imagined could be called rafters. Over the sleeping berths she noticed storage racks containing baskets and pots and stacks of animal furs. A large brown and tan dog stopped its scratching, hind leg stayed in mid air, as he studied the new arrival. The woman grunted and tugged Heloise’s arms outstretched. She produced a knife and with a flick of its sharp blade, sliced the bindings around Heloise’s wrists. Heloise rubbed her raw skin, studying the woman cautiously from beneath hooded eyelids. She was slightly taller than Heloise, plumb of face and figure, though not fat. The woman circled Heloise, touching her skin, fingering the fabric of her dress, muttering under her breath all the while. Abruptly the woman turned and pointed to a sleeping berth, and Heloise gathered that was to be hers.

* * *

That night Heloise lay upon the matting, eyes heavy with weariness. Six days she had marched through the forest, driven with little rest, over trails only vaguely defined, to this place deep in the wilderness. Heloise stretched sore aching legs and gingerly rubbed her blistered feet against the fabric of her bedding. She stared at the shadows weaving and twisting upon the longhouse walls. Her ears were vaguely aware of the sounds around her, the rustling of wind in the shingles of elm bark overhead, and the raspy, stertorous breathing from the compartment across from her. As the lethargy of sleep deepened its claim on her, Heloise had the strangest feeling that she was again in her father’s house and she reached, searching in the emptiness beside her for Henri’s familiar form. She remembered then and pressed her fingers to her lips to stifle the moan of anguish that rose in her throat.

* * *

Katsitsaroroks sat up quickly. The early morning sun, peeking above the tree-covered hills to the east, sent its pale light creeping into the longhouse of the Turtle-clan. Today was a special day. She was ten winters old, and today she would go with the women. Katsi slipped from her bed; seeing that her mother was already awake. Katsi hesitated watching how the early morning sun glistened on her mother’s pale golden hair. Katsi tried to imagine her mother’s world before she came to the people of the longhouse. The stories she told were all so foreign, and she could not help but feel guilty. She knew her mother did not want her to forget her ancestry, but this village, her brother were the only family she knew. Her mother had given her her French name, Stephanie, after her grandmother, her mother said, but Katsi was never called that. She was known by the name her grandmother Tsikonsaseh had given her, Katsitsaroroks, gathering flowers. Katsi could speak French, indeed quite fluently, but she didn’t, except when she and her mother or perhaps her brother were alone. Seldom did she speak it otherwise. Katsi spoke the language as a real human being speaks.

My-daughter, Heloise smiled, looking sideways at the girl as she continued to tie her hair into a hank behind her head. What is this, I do not have to drag you out of bed this morning?

No, My-mother. Have you forgotten what day this is? Katsi asked, watching her mother.

Yes. You will be a woman before long.

But, I am a woman, Katsi interrupted. Satekariwadeh said I may join the women, the Society of Planters, today.

You are right, Heloise agreed, stopping her hands and looking into her daughter’s face.

She was a beautiful child, Heloise thought, graced with great dark eyes that seemed to drink in everything around her. Yet she had too, her father’s strong spirit, despite her delicate features. A sadness crept into Heloise’s eyes. Katsi would never know her father, dead now nearly two winters, killed in a raid into Abenaki country.

My-mother, Katsi asked, crouching at her mother’s feet. What is wrong? Your eyes are filled with pain.

Heloise shook her head. I was just remembering, she sighed.

About, My-father?

Heloise nodded.

Katsi leaned back on her heels. She knew well the story of her mother’s capture and how she had been adopted into the Turtle clan. But Katsi never tired of the story.

My-mother, tell me about, My-father. Tell me again, what did you think of him when you first saw him?

Child, I have told you the story hundreds of times, Heloise protested, though her eyes twinkled with pleasure at the request to retell it.

Well… Heloise began, I really thought he was the most horrible man I had ever seen.

But he was very handsome! You forgot that, Katsi interrupted.

Yes, that is right, Heloise nodded. Still, recall that it was only a few months after I had been brought here. I didn’t understand the language of the Iroquois—and you must remember, these people, and she shrugged her shoulders, rolling her eyes to make it clear she was talking in the past tense, had carried me away from my people, had murdered my husband of only two months. What did you expect me to do?

Katsi nodded understandingly, leaning forward eagerly. And? she prompted.

So, I ignored Rakarota. I would not even look at him, and he told me later it nearly broke his heart, Heloise giggled. At the time two other young men visited the long house of Tsikonsaseh, and I knew they had eyes for me also. Heloise bent close to Katsi, lowering her voice. They were truly ugly, she twittered. One was very short and his legs were bowed, she explained, motioning with her arms. The other had a great long nose, out to here, she laughed, holding out her hand.

"But I pretended to be interested in Big nose, just to put your father in his place. Then one day I began to notice that neither Big nose or Bowed legs had been to visit for many days, only Rakarota, your father. He would come every day, sitting with his big eyes. He convinced Tsikonsaseh that he could teach me to speak like a real human being, for as yet I was very slow to learn. He did teach me, Heloise smiled, giving Katsi a shy look. And within the year I offered him a bowl of sagamite and we were married. I found out after we were married that your father had tricked Bowed legs and Big nose, telling them that I had been cursed by the spirit of Atotaroh. That I had had four husbands and all of them had died within a month after their marriage to me."

How silly of them to believe him, Katsi laughed, shaking her head. But I am glad they did.

Oh your father was very convincing, Heloise sighed, and she sat for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes. She suddenly turned her face away, pushing the thoughts from her mind. It would do no good to keep remembering the past.

Come Katsi, Heloise said, we don’t want to be late. The others will leave without us.

Yes, Katsi cried, leaping to her feet, suddenly recalling the importance of this day. She had been chosen to carry the spirit of Onenhste, the Corn Maiden, oldest of the Three Sister crops—corn, squash and beans. It was a special honor. There would come a day though, before many winters, when Katsi would pause to think more fully the notions her mother’s words invoked in her.

1753

CHAPTER I

The anchor cable wore through the hawse pipe like the hissing of a serpent as the brig Glasgow, eighty-seven days out of Hull, dropped anchor into the East River. As Captain Jeremias Werner made his way up the ladder from the spar deck to the wheelhouse, the clank of a church bell carried across the expanse of the water from the pleasant little port city of New York. Captain Werner shaded his eyes as he watched the small boat pull out from the wharf. He glanced down from his height at the crowd pressing against the waist-boards of the brig. He turned his gaze back to the approaching boat. He would be glad when this business was adjourned. There was time to be spent in more then one of yonder taverns, he considered, as his eyes searched out the many shops and buildings visible above the Broad Street dock.

As the boat drew alongside, a sailor in the prow clasped hold of the ladder hanging over the side of the brig.

Bede, the captain shouted to the first mate, show Mister Hobart to my quarters when he comes aboard.

Aye Cap’tan, the mate answered.

Captain Werner turned from the stern window as a thickset man plainly dressed in the garb of a merchant, entered the cabin.

Well, Captain, another safe crossing, the man said, tossing his cap upon the bunk.

Aye, all’s well, he nodded, and reached to fill two glasses from a squat bottle. Are ye ready te look at the manifests? he asked after the two had tossed down the drinks.

Indeed. And what have ye brought us this trip? the other said, flipping back the tails of his coat before flopping into one of the chairs.

The captain filled the glasses again and setting the bottle on the table, pulled from the locker at the foot of his bunk, a bundle of papers that he handed to the other. The captain said nothing as the merchant went over the papers.

Any artisans in this bunch? Hobart asked, not looking up as his fingers shifted through the sheets. There’s a great demand fer such on the Western frontier, he said, matter of factly.

I can count two or three that may be worth more’n o’ parcel of loggerheads. Captain Werner growled. Save one feller. Seems te have the makin’s of a carpenter.

Indeed? There’s a Mr. Horniblow up at Albany that writes he’s in need of just such a man. What’s this chap’s name?

Name’s Brannock.

He has money?

The captain nodded. Aye, but it can’t be more’n ten quid though, he said. That and the clothes on his back.

Humm, he mused. ‘Tis not the best ground te bargain on but perhaps we can come to some equitable arrangement, the merchant smiled.

Downing his drink, the merchant rose to his feet. Let’s see this chap., he said, folding up the bundle of papers. Out on deck, the captain paused a moment, eyeing the crowd of emigrants lining the rail. Locating the man he was seeking, he made his way up behind a tall young man, standing like the others, but apart from them, staring across the water at the city.

This be ‘em. Captain Werner said, tapping the young man on the shoulder.

The man turned to face them showing skin ruddy from sea and sun. His dark brown hair was held in a loose queue and a growth of nearly three month’s beard hid his cheeks and chin giving him, at first glance, a coarse untidy look. His shirt, nearly threadbare from frequent washings clung to his muscled frame. He nodded to the captain, though his eyes perhaps blue for he squinted in the bright sun, shifted to peer at the merchant.

Well now, my good fellow. Captain Werner tells me ye’re a carpenter, Hobart said. I could use such services if yer willing.

Andrew Brannock nodded slowly.

Good, the merchant chuckled. We can talk business.

Andrew glanced deliberately at the others crowding the rail. He supposed there was not much difference between them. Each in their own way had emigration forced upon them. They, through privation and want, he—his jaw knotted.

Fer a small fee I can set ye up with gainful employment, Hobert was saying. To be honest my friend, I make my livelihood working on consignment. Say, fer five pound sterling, I’ll provide ye a contract, and fix ye up with what tools ye’ll need, clothes and various necessities such as lodging and food, seein’ that ye’ll need te travel some te reach yer employer.

I’m afraid I can’t afford your services, Mr. Hobert, Andrew said, turning back to peer toward shore.

Course ye can see te findin’ yer own employment, Hobert mused. But what with the tax on debarkation—

Debarkation? Andrew interjected, whirling about. He glanced at the captain who maintained a passive look on his face.

Aye, and then you’ll be havin’ te find lodgin’ and food—

How much is the debarkation tax? Andrew demanded.

Five pound sterling, Hobert said, pretending to brush lint from the facing of his coat.

Andrew took a deep breath. Then he shook his head. It would have to become his nature, he guessed, to be accepting of life’s short falls. It had been difficult, those first few weeks at sea. There were times when out of nowhere the fragrance of clove pinks would overwhelm him and a lump would form in his throat. But finally there had come acquiescence. On the long voyage under trade winds he had nothing but time on his hands. Many nights were spent stretched out in the bowsprit net looking up at the stars, hearing the sound of the sea as it rushed under the forefoot, alone with his thoughts. And he concluded that he had done the rightful thing. In the dim of early morning, without one word of good-bye, he had simply walked away from Ramsgate and—Jane Godfrey.

I only have ten pounds to my name, Andrew said, resignedly.

Humm, Hobert sighed, his mouth turning down at the corners to express his deep thought. I’ll tell ye what I’ll do. I’ll give ye the same deal as before, save fer nine pounds—now that’ll take care of the debarkation tax and all the other particulars I mentioned.

* * *

Andrew made his way along Broad Street. Having spent so many weeks at sea living with the constant motion of the ship, it was a strange sensation he experienced walking up the hard unyielding surface of the street, and it took him a while to recover his land legs. He finally came to a stop before what he recognized was the hostelry in which he was to find lodging as per Hobert’s instruction. Andrew was to be contacted when the barge was ready for its trip up the river to Albany where he was to meet a Mr. Horniblow. In his pocket he carried a letter written by Mr. Hobert explaining the circumstances of his arrival and touting his skill as a carpenter.

Two mornings later Andrew was roused, before daylight, from his bed in an attic room of Fraunces Tavern. Gathering his knapsack after a quick breakfast of bread and bacon, he sat out following a man who introduced himself as Ben Finley. A man of below medium height, Finley wore an overly large coat that gave him the appearance of a turtle venturing forth from its shell. Andrew made his way along vacant streets past a large green, barely discernible in the dawn’s gray light.

When they reached the small dock at the base of what Finley called Battery Park, Andrew saw the barge. A half dozen people stood about on the landing, silhouetted in the light of several torches.

Load up folks, Finley ordered. We’re shovin’ off.

Andrew found a place in the prow of the open barge. He could feel the wetness from the dew-slick planking seeping through his breeches as he settled upon the forward thwart. No one talked as the barge got underway, and shortly Andrew found himself dozing.

* * *

Andrew’s head came up with a jerk, realizing suddenly that it was daylight. He sat up straight, peering about him. The barge moved slowly up stream, propelled by four men at the oars. A mast, stepped well forward and rigged with a simple triangular sail, aided their efforts, though only slightly, for the sail hung limp for the most part, filling sporadically whereupon the barge would quicken speed only to slow as the fitful wind died. Drawing in a deep breath, Andrew’s eyes took in the landscape. Never in his life could he have imagined such wild untamed beauty. The expanse of green rolled upward to the sky all about him, and in the dark shadows beneath its thick canopy Andrew could see the enormous trees, their trunks the breadth of ten men. Rounding a slight bend Andrew started, his breath catching in his throat as a flock of birds took to flight with a great rushing of air that seemed to vibrate through the trees like the wind of an approaching storm.

Well before sundown, the barge put in to shore, striking the bank at a clearing obviously frequented regularly by Finley’s barge and others making their way up river. Having taken a turn at the oars, Andrew, though he could feel the tightness in his muscles, felt more alive than he had in months. Following a supper of hard cakes and salt-pork, Andrew sat staring out over the river. Night had fallen and the others had all settled in their blankets. The light from the dying campfire danced upon the dark ripples of the river. He listened to the slapping of waves against the mud bank, trying to pierce the darkness, wondering at the sounds in the ebony shadows around him, imagining the strange wild creatures that lurked there. And the memories began to flood his mind, memories of—Jane Godfrey…

It had been raining that night when he first saw her. The sound of the carriage drew his attention and peering from his loft room saw the conveyance roll to a creaking stop in the shelter of the covered causeway connecting the impressive stone house and the stable. The door opened on the house side and lantern light glistened upon the wet, mud splashed carriage, and shimmered eerily on the ghostly vapor wafting upward from the soaked horses. The driver, water pouring in riverlets from his hat and down the oilcloth cape draped about his shoulders, climbed stiffly from the high seat.

Andrew watched with quickening interest as the driver opened the carriage door. The first occupant to step forth was a tall middle-aged man in a somber brown redingote. He turned and quickly reached back into the ebony interior of the coach. By this time his mother’s slim form rounded the rear of the carriage, lantern held high, and its yellow glow shown upon the youthful face of a young woman. Black ringlets, damp from the wetness of the night curled about pale rounded cheeks framed by the hood of her dark pelisse. The girl leaned from the coach and Andrew’s eyes widened as the light brought into relief her straight delicate nose and full finely turned mouth, though set now in a firm almost defiant line.

He smiled ruefully. He had never kissed those lips. His eyes stared into the darkness. He could have—should have, but—anger, rage at her betrayal had prevented him.

He remembered the days following her arrival at her uncle’s house at Ramsgate. He watched for her, spying even, on her upstairs apartment, which he could see from the workbench under the window in his father’s tiny carpentry shop. His father leased the shop from her uncle Aengus Crosswaite, had for nearly twelve years. He had come from Yorkshire when Andrew was only nine, having failed for some reason in his own business there, and his mother had accepted employment as Mister Crosswaite’s housekeeper.

That first morning the drapes were tightly pulled, and each morning thereafter. Andrew found his eyes flitting there often, and he fancied that she would come to the window and notice him there. But for nearly a week