Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (6 page)

"I'll thank you gentlemen to leave my shop,"
Deborah told them icily.

Dobbs laughed heartily at this and took
another swig of gin as he crossed the room. "I'll thank
you
to come upstairs with me, darling!" His fingers touched the pistol
he wore. "Wouldn't want to have to persuade you."

He was a tall, thin man with sinewy muscles
and he easily pulled her off toward the stairway. Devon watched in
horror, feeling as though her world were going up in flames of
terror.

"Mama!" she cried, tears streaming down her
cheeks. "Oh, Mama, no!"

The last glimpse she had of her mother would
be scorched permanently in her memory. Deborah's perpetually bitter
expression had vanished. Devon never called her Mama—only Jamie
had—but in that moment all the lost years and love flowed back
between mother and daughter.

"Devon, my baby—" Deborah's voice was tender,
surprised, sad. Dobbs yanked her around the corner and there was a
long clattering noise as he forced her upstairs.

Smythe caught Devon's shoulder and she turned
to face him. Wearing a white wig and a well-tailored red, black,
and white uniform, Smythe had a passable appearance, yet his
bloodshot eyes were narrowed in a way that made Devon shudder.
Seeing her reaction, his mouth twisted in a mirthless smile.

Grasping each shoulder, Smythe pulled her
against his body and kissed her brutally. Devon could taste the gin
on his thick tongue and was horrified to feel something swelling
against her belly.

When he began to pull at her bodice, Devon
pleaded, "Please! Stop—"

Smythe grinned. Grasping the froth of lace
trimming the neckline, he ripped the gown halfway to her waist.
Devon sobbed as he pushed her backward across the table, atop the
net canopies, and pinned her wrists. His mouth sought the sweet
young breasts but she wriggled to elude him. Grunting with
frustration, he bit each one in turn, pleased by her cry of pain.
Her senses began to dull. There was no sound from upstairs.
Naturally, her mother would not allow herself to scream, Devon
thought. She closed her eyes, tears streaming, as Smythe pulled up
her skirts, fumbling for the tender, secret place no man had seen.
He was breathing heavily. Oh, merciful God... please...

It was not God who delivered her, but the
enemy. Suddenly there were voices and a step in the doorway.

"Smythe, damn you, what are you up to? Leave
this play for later. Come on, then—"

"You can't expect me to stop now!" Smythe
whined. "Have a turn yourself, Lieutenant. I won't tell. Just let
me have my own!"

"No! Let the girl up. If you stay here
another minute, you'll be burned to death for your pleasure. We're
putting the torch to every building on this street, and Captain
Stapleton is waiting."

Smythe was furious; Devon dazed. The
lieutenant departed and Smythe left her bent across the table. He
stamped over to the stairway, calling, "Dobbs! They're burning the
town. We've got to get out!"

He returned to Devon and tried to pull her
across the room to the door.

"My mother!" she screamed. "You must make
certain she’s coming! Mama! Hurry!" Her voice grew shrill,
hysterical, until Smythe slapped her roughly across her mouth. When
Devon began struggling in earnest, he cuffed her again with enough
force to make her neck snap back, dazing her.

She was in such shock as he dragged her
outside that she forgot her gaping bodice. Acrid smoke burned her
eyes. Flames danced through houses, shops, warehouses, and barns
all along the Bank, spreading as she watched. Soldiers were
carrying torches on their way to the Beach, laughing over the
prospect of plundering the warehouses there. A young boy in uniform
ran to Smythe to offer his torch.

"The lieutenant said to wait 'til you came
out," he piped, ogling Devon.

Smythe grabbed the torch and tossed it inside
the Linen and Pewter Shop, onto Deborah's handmade canopies. The
fire roared up as Devon began to cry out again, choking back tears.
"Mama! Please, hurry, hurry!" Helplessly, she crumpled against her
captor. "My mama!"

"Come on, then, wench. I'll have you yet,"
Smythe growled. The boy ran along beside them as they followed Bank
Street northward. Devon stumbled and wept craning her neck to see
the shop, her home, hoping to see her mother and Dobbs emerge. The
entire front of the building was engulfed in tangerine flames
before they had turned a corner.

A raw, angry survival instinct soon replaced
her trembling numbness, but Devon went on pretending that she was
in shock. Real hatred, unknown to her until today, filled her with
clever courage. As they drew near to the rendezvous spot where
Captain Stapleton and the other men waited, she could sense
Smythe's carelessness. His grip on her arm loosened as he gulped
gin and conversed vulgarly with the boy who accompanied them.
Through the flames and smoke the battle at Fort Griswold was
progressing, and after Smythe assessed Devon's blank stare and
shuffling walk, he turned to peer across the Thames.

At that instant Devon snapped her arm free,
raised her skirts, and started running.

Black smoke scorched her lungs as she ran on
and on through the curving, blazing streets. Unable to look back
for fear of seeing Smythe, she just kept running, turning random
corners.

Three redcoats approached from the south, so
Devon ran in the opposite direction. She knew, without consciously
deciding, just where she might find refuge. The British soldiers
had begun chasing her, but one by one they gave up, dulled by
alcohol and fatigue. Devon clambered up a stone-reinforced bank and
disappeared into a thick stand of trees. Quickly she chose a sturdy
sycamore and ascended with the agility of a cat. Below and to the
north lay the Burial Ground, where some of New London's earliest
inhabitants rested under arched stone markers. Devon relaxed for a
moment, but then spied a man on horseback beside the Winthrop tomb.
She leaned forward for a closer look. A redcoat! And he was an
officer, immaculately bewigged and uniformed. The man was watching
the last moments of the battle at Fort Griswold, across the Thames.
Devon pulled herself forward along the branch in an effort to see
the face of this enemy who so coolly supervised the battle. The
commanding officer? she wondered. The man responsible for her
mother's death, her degradation? And Nick, over at the fort, was he
dead, too?

A twig snapped against her knee and the
British officer glanced around. Devon held her breath, felt it burn
her lungs. This man was the most infamous traitor of all—Benedict
Arnold!

She longed to jump to the ground and claw his
face. He had betrayed not only his country but now his own town as
well. Only Arnold could have known the Thames so well, could have
been so familiar with the habits of the harbor towns. No wonder the
alarm from Fort Griswold had been botched! The traitor had to be
certain the cards were dealt in his favor before the match
began.

He sat astride his horse, elegant and clean
as he watched the action at Groton Heights through narrowed eyes.
Devon seethed with repressed fury, knowing that she must remain
silent.

She lost all sense of time. The early foliage
protected her from the sun. The fires in New London died down; the
Parade was destroyed, its charred remains smoking dismally. Devon
could see all the storehouses along the Beach and the Bank standing
open while redcoats and Hessians carried off what remained of the
contents. The store that had held the goods from the
Hannah,
the prize ship which had been captured just two months ago, stood
deserted, its doors gaping open.

Her eyes burned and watered from the smoke;
her limbs ached. It hurt too much to think about her mother or Nick
or anyone else who might be dead, so she forced herself to stare at
Arnold until hatred overcame grief.

Messengers came and went, whispering in the
general's ear. Arnold began to look rather fatigued himself;
several times he mopped the sweat from his brow.

Three British officers rowed across the
Thames and landed at New London. A green-clad Hessian pointed
toward the Burial Ground, and the men ran up Hill Street toward
their commander. There was a great deal of gesturing when they
reached Arnold. He appeared to be furious, but Devon could not
discern his words. Then, quieted, he led them back to the stretch
of shadow near his horse, stopping only a few yards from her
perch.

"You've killed them all?" the general hissed
incredulously. "I thought they surrendered the fort!"

"Yes. They did surrender," the tallest
officer muttered.

"Hmm. I see." Arnold closed his eyes for a
moment, pressing white fingers to his brow. "Well, it's done now.
Have you made a count?"

"Yes, sir. Eighty-five dead, sixty wounded,"
said a plump and eager lieutenant. "They fought like tigers, sir!
Even after they were run through, they kept on. One of their
negroes killed Major Montgomery, but we saw to it that he never
lived to tell the tale."

Arnold's next words were muffled, but Devon
wasn't listening. Eighty-five dead! Eighty-five of her lifelong
friends and neighbors. It was a massacre! Devon shut her eyes and
clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Every muscle and nerve in
her body longed to lash out and destroy these verminous
redcoats.

When she finally opened her eyes, Arnold and
his men were gone. For a moment Devon wondered if he had been some
mad apparition. Perhaps her mind had snapped...

Looking toward New London, she saw that it
was no dream. Most of the fires were out and the British were
preparing to leave. Satan's brigade! Devon thought bitterly.
Struggling to sit up, she leaned back against the tree trunk, sore
and cold. She watched the town empty as the British returned to
their ships. Before long, the hill below Fort Griswold was bare as
well, but many of Groton’s buildings along the east riverbank were
now in flames.

The fiends! Devon seethed. Unable to bear
another moment in the tree, she dropped to the ground. It was a
long fall, but physical pain seemed a proper distraction. She was
heedless of danger from the enemy; the split bodice was her only
worry. Pausing barely a moment, she tore the ruffle from her
petticoat, and wrapped it around the bodice of her gown, concealing
her breasts. Well enough, she thought. The dress was ruined
anyway.

Devon left the Burial Ground and started down
Huntington Street. She wasn't sure where to go, nor could she think
properly. Turning toward the water, she walked to Main Street.
There was not a sign of life. The Parade was still engulfed in
smoke.

Haltingly, Devon started south and promptly
stumbled over a body. Red cloth was all she could see as she fell.
Her heart pounded in panic as she imagined crimson arms grasping
her, lifting her skirts... Shaking with terror and confusion, she
crawled to one side of the road. It
was
a British soldier,
but one so intoxicated that he was incapable of attacking even the
road on which he lay. The air all around reeked of gin.

A horse was approaching! Devon commanded her
head to turn and saw, with relief, that the rider was garbed in
neither red nor dark green. He was not one of her neighbors,
however. There was no chance of escape; the man had already seen
her, waved, and was slowing down.

Devon could not find her voice. She watched
dumbly as the stocky, sandy-haired young man dismounted and
promptly searched the drunken redcoat. Smiling, he picked up the
bayoneted gun which lay at the soldier's side, then unwound the
cartridge box and bayonet sheath from his slack neck. Finally the
stranger turned to face Devon.

"Were you eyeing these?" he inquired, showing
no inclination to hand them over.

She shook her head vigorously.

"Say!" The man gave a shout. "I remember you!
Little Miss Hatbox! You used to hang about on the docks."

He grinned with a cheerfulness that seemed
macabre in the middle of a burned and looted town. Devon remembered
him then. The seaman from the
Black Eagle
who had spoken to
her last year. It had been the day she'd been kissed... She froze
against the memories and merely stared back at the genial
privateersman.

"Do you remember me?" he coaxed. "I think you
do! Say, are you all right? Why don't you say something?" His green
eyes fell on her ruffle-bound bodice and widened quizzically.

"The Bank—" Devon croaked. "You saw? Take me
there. My mama—"

"Miss, you can't go down there! The Parade's
still burning. And as for the Bank, it's gone. The Shaw mansion was
saved, but not much else. That was the first street to go, I
think."

"Mama," Devon choked, her throat thick with
tears.

"Aw, sweetheart." He put a muscular arm
around her. "What've they done to you? Your mama died?"

Devon nodded, trying to staunch the flow of
tears with her forearm. The stranger pried it away from her
face.

"My name is Caleb Jackson, and I'm going to
help you. Looks like you need some!" He set the redcoat's gun down
before wrapping his other arm around Devon. "Where's your
papa?"

"Dead," she sobbed.

"You're all alone?"

She nodded convulsively.

"Shh, now. Don't worry! It'll be all right.
I'll take care of you. Tell me your name, sweetheart."

Devon was ashamed of her tears and whimpering
and incoherence, yet she clung to Caleb Jackson desperately.
"I'm... Devon," she whispered.

Caleb grinned again, even more cheerfully.
"That's the prettiest name I ever heard," he declared. "Just like
you. Devon, you come with me. I'll see that no harm comes to
you."

There was an openness about his smiling face
that Devon trusted. She looked back just once at the ugly black
smoke to the south before letting him help her mount his horse.
They started off and were deep into the woods above New London
before Devon realized she had not even asked where they were
going.