Black Eagle (38 page)

“But to leave the room, I have to agree to the marriage, and I cannot. I am already married, whether my step-uncle acknowledges it or not. Besides, the man my uncle has picked for me is three times my age, he speaks with a lisp and he is so skinny, he would fit into the head of a needle. Besides, if I were to agree, my uncle would rush me into marriage at once, tonight.”

“ 'T is a bad lot ye have. Forgive me for saying this, but . . .” She hesitated.

“Yes? Please go on.”

“If ye are to change yer lot, ye will need yer strength. After all, what is a locked door, when a body is healthy and has an open window?”

“I have thought of that. But there are guards posted around the house, as well as at the bottom of my window. I have seen them there.”

“Aye, and they are bought with the finest gold in all the land,” said Mrs. Stanton. “But gold doesn't make a man loyal . . . forgive my forthrightness.”

“Be at your ease, Mrs. Stanton. I enjoy your frankness and your company.”

Mrs. Stanton placed her hands on her hips, standing akimbo as she said, “I should know about the guards. I feed 'em.”

“Truly?”

“But your uncle doesn't. He thinks men can be bought. Maybe some can, like that Colonial militia that came and took ye from the Indians. They were happy to be bought. But there were some that thought they be doin' ye a favor. They had goodness in their hearts.”

“I disagree, Mrs. Stanton. They tied me to a horse, they gagged me, and not one of them came to my rescue.”

“ 'Cause they thought ye would leave.”

“I would have.”

“But don't ye see, some thought they were doin' good. Them's the ones I can help ye with.”

Marisa slanted Mrs. Stanton a respectful look. “You would help me?”

Mrs. Stanton nodded. “ 'T isn't right what yer uncle be doin' to ye, child. Now, I may not be the smartest woman in all of Albany, but I have a plan I think might work.”

Marisa gazed at Mrs. Stanton with newfound respect, and she said. “You have a plan?”

Mrs. Stanton nodded. “Now, come here, child and I'll tell ye what I think. But if I do this, ye must promise me that ye'll eat.”

“I promise.”

 

 

Marisa and Mrs.Stanton had set their plans well. According to Mrs. Stanton, the best time to sneak away, using the window, was late at night, after the evening meal. The guard on duty at that time was a young man who appeared to be sympathetic to Marisa's plight. Plus, he was always hungry.

Their plans were simple. Mrs. Stanton was to lure him to the kitchen on the pretext of a meal. Marisa was then to set into motion, to climb down from three flights up, using the rope she had been carefully making from her good, strong hemp sheets.

Marisa had already donned her best riding habit in preparation for her escape; it was a dark blue material that would also act as camouflage. She had also caught up her hair in a dark blue, silk and lace kerchief.

She had set her plans well. She would go directly to the woods, bypassing the livery; it would be the first place they might look for her.

Besides, after being so long on the trail with Black Eagle, she felt more than able to traverse the distance on foot. Taking a cue from Black Eagle, she had attached an extra pair of slippers to a strap that hung from around her shoulders, and in one of her bags she had placed a knife, carefully sheathed, having been donated by cook.

Three weeks. For three weeks, she'd been back in Albany. And for almost as long she'd been locked in her rooms.

At first her guardian had seemed happy at her return, but this had quickly faded when she had adamantly refused his plans for an upcoming marriage. Indeed, the several times she had attempted to escape the Rathburn estate, John Rathburn had locked her in her quarters. Amidst threats, he had posted a guard below her window and had demanded her complete agreement to marry, or she would never leave her rooms.

Thus, two strong wills came into conflict.

But John Rathburn was not to be crossed so easily. With or without her agreement, he had arranged the marriage to take place in their home, complete with groom and preacher and guests. He had arranged it thinking that Marisa would be so cowed that she would fall in with his plans.

How wrong he'd been. Marisa had refused to say the necessary words to seal the arrangement. And luckily, the preacher could not be bought.

Only these last few days had been good. For the first time in weeks, she was eating, she was well nourished and she was excited. She knew exactly what she would do.

Stepping to her window, she looked up at the night sky; this, too, was good. It was a cloudless night, although there was no moon. The stars would be her guide.

Her plans were thus: First she would enter the forest and find the tree where she and Black Eagle had first experienced their love for one another. There she would hide until her uncle's bullies had either gone or had stopped looking for her. Then when it was safe, perhaps tomorrow evening, she would be away.

She was frightened, it was true, but anything was better than being held prisoner.

Taking a deep breath, and saying a prayer, she lowered the rope made of sheets, securing it to the foot of her bed. Standing on a chair, she climbed over the windowsill, hauling herself down, slowly.

There was a second floor window directly below hers and she prayed there would be no one there to see her. Her luck held. The window was pitch-black.

Downward she climbed until at last her feet hit the ground. She was so frightened, she was shaking. But taking courage, she turned swiftly around and started to run toward the woods.

She had taken no more than a few steps, however, when a dark shadow stepped out from the bushes in front of her. Immediately her stomach turned, and fear washed through her. She knew immediately who it was. She recognized that stench.

It was Thompson. So Thompson was alive. And she was in trouble.

“Goin' somewhere, miss?”

“Yes,” she said. “Home.”

“Aren't ye there, lass?”

“Hardly. Step out of my way or I will kill you. Lord knows I want to kill you. My maid is gone because of you.”

“Good,” he said. “Good. I be glad to hear that one of ye is gone. Now for the other one.”

“That will be a little hard for you. I have a gun pointed directly at your chest.” She didn't, of course. All her firearms had been taken from her. But under the cover of darkness, and with her hand in her purse, perhaps Thompson might never suspect. And so she continued, “If you want to live, I suggest you get out of my way.”

Unfortunately for Marisa, Thompson was far more experienced, he was much larger than she was and he was an assassin. When he made a move toward her, he quickly overpowered her, taking away the only weapon she had, the knife given to her by Mrs. Stanton.

“Now, miss, we'll be seeing what's what. Come along.”

Marisa tried to extricate herself from Thompson's grip. But it was useless. No matter how much she fought him, she was helpless to overpower him, and he dragged her toward the house.

Marisa sighed. Another attempted escape foiled. She might never have another one.

Albany. At last Black Eagle had arrived. Immediately, he sought out others from the Six Nations who made Albany their home. From them he learned much.

She was here. She was kept prisoner in her room. She had tried to escape twice.

It was enlightening. Quickly, he laid his plans and set out to put things in order. The tree would be their hideaway. There they would stay until it was safe to leave.

He sprinted to that place now. Moving quickly, he stocked the tree with skin-covered pouches of water, also bags full of dried meat and corn. Over the floor, to cushion her, he left his blanket.

And now for the most important element of his plan, his wife.

It was evening. The shadows would hide him well enough so that if he were careful, he could steal onto the grounds of the Rathburn estate. He had learned where her window was. He would go there now.

Curiously, he found the place unguarded. But there was a rope of sorts hanging from her window. Had she already escaped? Was he too late?

Looking around the grounds for telltale tracks, he saw that she had left here, perhaps only minutes ago. He wasn't too late.

He followed her trail, observing when she was joined by another set of prints. He recognized these, too. Thompson. He was back. He was alive.

Crouching down low, Black Eagle followed their path, which led directly to the mansion. Still amused that he had not encountered any guards, for it was said that the house was well protected, he stole up to a window and looked in. But he could see nothing.

The window, however, was not locked. He let himself in and crept forward. Where were they?

If Thompson were with her, and it appeared that he was, her life was in danger. He must move quickly, but he must make no mistakes.

He listened, and at last he heard them. Voices. Down a dark corridor, behind a door. Slowly, slowly, he crept toward it. Slowly, noiselessly he turned the doorknob and cracked the door. He listened.

John Rathburn was laughing. “Arrest him?” he was saying, humor tingeing his voice. “Arrest him, when 'twas I who hired him to kill ye and yer maid in the first place.”

“You? But step-uncle, you're my guardian. You have cared for me all my life.”

“Cared for ye? As long as ye had worth for me, I cared for ye. But ye abused it. Ye brought this on yourself. Ye threatened me. Me. Because of that Pennsylvania deal, which has, by the way, been quite lucrative. And ye told yer maid. Yer maid. Unforgivable. Well, what was I to do? Submit to yer blackmail? When 'twas pure treason ye offered me?

“But I had one better for ye. While appearing to submit to yer request, I hired Thompson here to do away with ye and yer maid. I am only disgusted with Thompson that he has left the job undone. But he shall not fail now. Indeed not. I'm afraid I will require ye to write a note, dear. One stating that ye could not envision life without yer dearly beloved Indians. Therefore, ye have had no choice but to take yer own life. Here is pen and paper. Write it.”

“I will not.”

“If ye won't do it, then I'll see that cook is quietly done away with in as terrible a way as possible. Do ye think I was not aware of your plans?”

Marisa remained silent.

“Now write it. That's a fine lass. There ye go, now. Let me read it. Good. Good. Thompson, shoot her in the head. Now.”

But Thompson never had a chance. Black Eagle's knife whizzed through the air, hitting Thompson's shooting hand square. The gun fell to the floor.

With a loud war whoop, Black Eagle shot into the room, and taking his tomahawk in hand, he hurled himself at Thompson, making a swipe at him. But Thompson ducked and the offense did no greater damage than tear his clothes at the waist.

But wait, what was that? Blood oozed through his clothes. As though only now aware of what had happened, Thompson glanced down, gazing back up at Black Eagle in disbelief.

The two men stared at each other, challenging each other, then Black Eagle, executing a hundred-degree turn, shoved his tomahawk into Thompson's side, next to his neck. Thompson went down. Thompson was dead.

Black Eagle turned to John Rathburn. “I'll take that note,” he said.

“I think not.” Rathburn made a dash for the gun that Thompson had dropped, but he was too late. Perhaps it was being on the trail with Black Eagle that had done it, maybe it was something else, but Marisa's instincts were swifter than her guardian's. Marisa beat him to it. She held the gun in her hand, steady. Black Eagle was proud of her. Very proud.

She said, “Give him the note.”

John Rathburn was not a fool. He acted accordingly.

“I'll give ye ten thousand dollars in gold if ye let me go.” He was speaking to Black Eagle. “Here, the gold is in my desk.”

“Don't move.” It was Marisa speaking. Then to Black Eagle, “He has a gun in his desk.”

“I think you should come away from there,” said Black Eagle, his musket aimed toward Rathburn's head. “I am a good shot, especially at close range.”

“You had better do as he says,” said Marisa. “He's only looking for a good reason to do it.”

Rathburn stopped midstride.

“And now, step-uncle,” said Marisa. “I think there is a confession to be made. 'Tis yours. Here is pen and paper.”

“You can't make me do it.”

“Perhaps not,” she said. “As I said, my husband is only waiting for a good reason to kill you. I, too. Perhaps both of us will do it.”