Black Eagle

  A woman on the run…a warrior’s vow…an assassin on their trail.

  The Warriors of the Iroquois, Book 1

  With the English and the French at each other’s throats, struggling for control of the North American continent, the battle lines have been drawn. But Marisa Jameson is witness to treachery closer to home.

  After she overhears her uncle’s plot to destroy a Dutch town for his own gain, she threatens to expose him—and is forced to run for her life.

  When the mesmerizing beauty says she needs a guide to visit a friend, Mohawk warrior Black Eagle volunteers. He knows the wild forests of New England like the back of his hand, but soon senses danger is dogging their heels and suspects there’s more to Marisa’s anxiety to move swiftly than her eagerness to “visit a friend”.

  Caught in the crossfire of a war and with a deadly assassin hot on their trail, Marisa and Black Eagle discover that trusting each other is the only way to outrun the enemy—and that love may be the only way to survive.

  This book has been previously published under the author’s pseudonym of Gen Bailey, but has been substantially revised and expanded.

  Warning: May cause one to fall in love with that special someone all over again.

  Black Eagle

  Karen Kay

  Dedication

  For Michael Badnarik, author of the book Good to Be King and the stepfather of the Constitution, who first taught me that we are all kings and queens here in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

  And for my husband, Paul Bailey, whom I love with all my heart.

  Acknowledgments

  A special thanks goes out to the following very beloved people, who are Gen Bailey’s Warriorettes. You have not only my appreciation, but my respect and admiration.

  Francis Miller, Debra Guyette, Cathie Morton, Lori Barnes, Janet Hughes, June Phyllis Baker, Diana Tidlund, Rebekah Elrod, Jane Squires, Heather Bennett, Sheila Lawson, Diane Dicke, Sharon Crumper, Tami Bates, Katherine M. Kakegamic, Melinda Elmore, Dena Walton, Jennifer Johnson, Beth Reimer, Deanna Fullbright, Terry Stuart, Sonja Dimitrovski, Emma L. Metz, Dianne Westbrook, Kristy Centeno, Malana Whited, Catherine Abernathy, Linda Barnes, Denell Wieczorek, Monica M. Carter, Melissa Keith, Kathy Lynn Reed, Amy Lytle, Jean Paquin, Raeann Williams, Robin Priddy, Arlene Jones, Debbie Mercer, Marilyn Wigglesworth, Tressa Thorp, Jenny Cooper, Donna Bratton, Kimberly Rouleau, Deidre Durance, Katherine Edgar, Carla Corless, Lilian Gilliers, Paula Willhoite, Vickie Batten, Pepper Cash, Kristen Waxler, Michele Rose Sonnenberg, Sarah Wendt, Debbie Cosentino, Heather Wentz, Tamara Miranda.

  Author’s Note

  For my brother-in-law, Robert Bailey.

  Your warmth, your humor, your kindhearted encouragement, as well as your presence in my life will never be forgotten. In all things, save one final moment, you never let me down.

  Thank you for the time you were here in my life. I am better for your presence.

  With love,

  Karen Kay writing as Gen Bailey

  Prologue

  It is a time of unrest. Both the English and the French are battling for control of the North American continent. Both seek the support of the strong and invincible Iroquois confederation. Deprivations are extant on both sides of the quarrel, the French and Indians of Canada against the English and the Mohawk of the Americas.

  As always, in any time of dissension, there are those who seek to profit from the ruin of others.

  The Territory of the Mohawk Indians

  The Keepers of the Eastern Door

  Iroquois Confederation

  Lake George area in what is now upper New York State

  Saskekowa Moon, September 1755

  Early evening

  Flintlock in hand, with powder horn thrown over his shoulder, bow and quiver full of arrows strapped across his back, the lone runner flew over a bloody path that wound through the forested valley of the Adirondack Mountains. As he jumped over a barrier of branches blocking his way, he caught his breath. Offshoots from tree limbs and debris cracked as his foot hit against them. But he didn’t fall. It was simply not an option.

  Without missing a beat, the young warrior, Black Eagle, brought himself back into pace, continuing onward, ever pushing himself faster. I will be swift as the eagle, he repeated to himself silently. I dare even the West Wind to be faster than I.

  Behind Black Eagle and in the distance, shots and cannon fire from the battle that was still waging echoed through the quiet of the forest. It was a strange contrast. Particularly so, since the fighting would likely carry on throughout the remainder of the day. But for Black Eagle, the battle had ended. His friend, William Johnson, lay wounded from the battle and now required help, assistance that Black Eagle and a few of the chiefs were determined to provide in the form of a medicine man and the Water-That-Runs-Swift.

  There is no doubt I will be successful. No creature, not even the eagle himself, is faster than I. I will save my friend. With this thought in mind, Black Eagle picked up his speed, flying along the narrow path that had seen more battles than he cared to recall. The very woods resounded with the departed spirits of his countrymen. That such a beautiful ground should bear great strife was to be lamented, and Black Eagle couldn’t help but consider that Hiawatha and the Peacemaker of the Iroquois confederation would be unhappy to learn of the number of wars that had come to their country, and in the name of peace.

  Such thoughts, however, were a waste of precious energy. The white man’s war was here, and whether the Iroquois people liked it or not, their homeland was situated between the two fighting nations.

  Passing quickly through a stream, Black Eagle set his pace again and turned his thoughts to other matters, to the woods that greeted him on every side of the path, and to the sounds and scents of the forest. It was a beautiful time of year, trees and bushes wearing their orange, gold and red leaves, as though they would announce their departure from this world with beauty and vigor.

  Black Eagle couldn’t help but be aware of the comparison between himself and his people and these trees. So much better it was to leave this earth in the full glory of battle, than to cower and hide in fear. Such was the Mohawk spirit.

  Brown, red, gold and green leaves littered the path as he ran onward, the musky scent filling his nostrils and causing him to recall other times when he had enjoyed their fragrance. Those past moments were happy days, alive with harmony and sunshine, seasons that were in deep contrast to the present.

  It was Black Hawk’s belief that Johnson, who was a staunch friend of the Mohawk longhouse of the wolf, must live. For his sake, for the sake of the Iroquois. With Henrick taken in the day’s battle, Black Eagle could only surmise that Johnson would become more and more important to the Iroquois.

  What would his grandmother say to this? Would she welcome Johnson’s new role in the tribe, or would she continue to predict that Johnson would cause the end of the great confederation?

  “A man not born to the people,” she had often cautioned, “rarely keeps the good of that people uppermost in mind. Always his thoughts are centered upon himself and the tribe of his birth. Always is there a conflict of viewpoint, for the ways of one are rarely the ways of the other. Keep my advice close to you, grandson, and do not, yourself, become too closely bound to another whose customs are not yours…in your personal friendships and especially in your choice of a woman. Remember who you are—a Pine Tree Chief. Our people are at war and need you, both as a warrior and as a leader. Do not be misled, for you are the best we have, and I fear that if you fail, so, too, do our people. Remember this.”

  He would not forget, and yet it was probably safe to say that Johnson had a
lready accomplished what few white men had ever done: he had earned the love and respect of the Mohawk people. Perhaps it was because his dealings as a trader were honest and fair, and his knowledge and adherence to Mohawk tradition was without fault. The fact that he had also married a beautiful Mohawk maiden had sealed his acceptance, causing him to become a person who was much loved by the Mohawk people. But was he truly a part of the Mohawk Nation, as he would like his people to believe? Or were his grandmother’s warnings closer to the truth?

  Black Eagle shook his head, as if the action might induce greater clarity and further insight. Unfortunately, Black Eagle was torn by conflicting experiences. Yes, he was destined to become a great leader of his people, yet could he turn his back on a man who was already a friend? A man to whom he owed so much? Was it not because of Johnson that Black Eagle had attended a white man’s school? Was it not because of Johnson that Black Eagle had come to an understanding of what the white man’s culture was about? It was probably safe to say that Johnson was as influential to him as an uncle or another member of his clan. Yet, would Johnson choose only those actions which were beneficial to the Mohawk in times of trouble?

  Perhaps his musings were without foundation. Besides, it little mattered at present because Johnson was a friend, and friendship demanded that Black Eagle must save him if he could. By now several of the Mohawk warriors should be carrying Johnson to the place where the water runs fast—a location known to the whites as Saratoga. It was well known amongst his own people that the water there was special—it was healing, and it would particularly be so if a medicine man could be persuaded to accompany Black Eagle there.

  Thus, since Black Eagle was acclaimed as the fastest runner amongst the warriors—both Indian and white—it had been put upon him to run to the nearest Mohawk village. The medicine man there was renowned. It was hoped that with consolation and tidings, the medicine man would accompany Black Eagle to the Water-That-Runs-Swift.

  Black Eagle frowned; the hour seemed late. In the western sky, he could discern traces of the pinkish-orange rays of sunset.

  Had he run so long? It had been late morning when he started on this journey.

  But what was this ahead of him? Was it sunlight streaming into the dark forest? Was his mission almost at an end?

  With leg and thigh muscles that felt burned from his hours-long exertion, Black Eagle sped forward, bursting from the forest only minutes later. Immediately he was engulfed in the neat, clean fields of the three sisters—corn, bean and squash—and his heart rejoiced. At last he was amongst the civilization of the Mohawk, his own village, the village of Canajoharie.

  Black Eagle relaxed.

  Chapter One

  Albany, New York

  September 1755

  Midnight

  Gasping, Marisa Jameson awoke suddenly. Sitting up, she coughed, breathing in swiftly and wheezing as she dislodged whatever it was that seemed intent on choking her.

  With eyes wide, she wondered if it were only this that had disturbed her sleep. Or was it something else? A dream perhaps? She searched her memory. She couldn’t remember.

  Sighing, she reached for the cup of milk resting atop her nightstand. As she clasped her hand around what should have been a cup, it met with nothing but air. She frowned, then lifted her brows.

  Oh, yes, she recalled it now. She had asked Sarah to take the distasteful milk back to the kitchen, and good riddance to it. It had been sour, something Marisa could barely tolerate.

  Throwing back the coverlets of the finest wool and cotton, she sat up. Casting her legs over the side of the four-poster bed, she plunged her feet into the slippers that had been positioned there especially for her.

  As she stood, the soft beaver felt that lined the slippers warmed her feet. But she took little notice of the convenience, since such luxuries surrounded her.

  After grabbing her sleeping jacket, she pulled the linen material over her chemise and padded toward the pitcher of water Sarah was certain to have set on the nightstand. Not bothering to pour the liquid into a cup, Marisa took a sip of the water from the ladle.

  That was when she heard them. Footsteps and hushed voices. Outside her door.

  Her heart skipped a beat, and her head came up. Was she in danger?

  She held her breath.

  No, thank God. The footsteps were fading into nothing. The creaking of a door being opened and closed at the end of the corridor announced that whoever was out there had no intention of disturbing her.

  But it was odd. It was the middle of the night. Could her step-uncle, John Rathburn, be entertaining at this hour? Or was it Governor Shirley?

  Perhaps it was Shirley, since the governor had made the Rathburn house the center of his command. Was the governor liaising with someone at this hour? With an officer of the militia perhaps?

  Marisa drew out a long breath. War. What could be more inconvenient?

  She frowned as a thought crossed her mind. It was doubtful that whoever had disturbed her was the governor, since his quarters, which were situated alongside her step-uncle’s, were stationed in the west wing of the Rathburn residence. Marisa’s rooms, on the other hand, were located in the east wing, far away from the governor or any other male member of the household.

  Then who was it? What was it? She had not imagined those footsteps. Or had she?

  Marisa stirred uneasily. She supposed she would have to be the one to discover if it were phantom or human being that had passed by her door. Otherwise she would worry over the possibilities the night through.

  If only Sarah’s rooms were situated closer to her own.

  Again Marisa sighed. Because there was a chill in the house at this time of year, Marisa opened her chest of drawers and grabbed hold of a dressing gown. After shoving her arms through its long sleeves, she tied the ribbons, which held the robe in place, around her neck in front.

  Her hand reached for the candlestick holder. But halfway to it, she hesitated.

  No. That wasn’t wise. If there was a clandestine meeting occurring within this wing of her home, a light—any light—would only serve to announce her approach. Besides, she could see well enough without a stream of light, since her eyes were already accustomed to the dark.

  Slowly, she pulled open the door to her chamber and tiptoed into the corridor. She turned to her right, since it seemed the footsteps had faded in that direction. Cautiously she swept forward.

  Farther along the corridor she saw it at last, a shaft of illumination quivering beneath the doorjamb of the farthest room in the east wing. Barely daring to breathe, she stole toward that door, plodding one careful footfall after another, until she had come so close she could hear the muffled voices in the room beyond.

  Pressing her ear to the door, she recognized her step-uncle’s voice at once. “Ye will be required to dress as the Indians do,” he was saying. “Are there those amongst ye willing to shave their head so they might resemble the Indians more closely?”

  “Aye, Gov’nor. For what you be paying them, this be no problem. No problem a’tall.”

  Marisa couldn’t place the ownership of that low and gravelly voice. She drew in more closely to the door.

  It was her step-uncle speaking once more. “The town is just across the Pennsylvania border. ’Tis a Dutch village, which ye will find…right here.”

  The men paused, and Marisa could only surmise that her step-uncle was pointing to a map.

  “Over here, to the south and the west,” he continued, “are the tobacco fields, which should be barren at this time of year. They had a good crop this year.” There was the sound of the map being rolled together. “Now here be the plans: Ye are to set the entire area to flame, do ye understand? Nothing is to be spared. Town and fields are to be burned so that nothing is left standing.”

  “I understand, Gov’nor.” It was strange, because no emotion echoed in th
e unusually low voice, as though the man were being asked to do no more than walk the dog. “What I fail to grasp, beg pardon, is why?”

  “’Tis not yer place to understand why I ask this of ye. Are ye not being paid enough to make the act worth yer while?”

  “But I need tell the men something,” that low voice insisted. “If they are to destroy everythin’ there, there must be a reason.”

  A long pause followed, then, “Very well,” said Rathburn. “If ye be insisting on telling them something, tell them that certain of the Dutch colony molested a young girl. That should set their sense of duty afire.”

  “Aye, Gov’nor. That it should. But pardon, sir, is it the truth? Did someone from the colony molest a maiden?”

  “Of course ’tis not true. But I’ll not be having ye force me to speak the truth to yer men.”

  “But ye will tell me? The truth?”

  “I will, provided I have yer word that it goes no farther than this room.” Rathburn paused.

  “Ye have it.”

  “Very well,” said Rathburn, and Marisa could easily envision her step-uncle’s self-satisfied smile. “Suffice it to say that the destruction of the Dutch homes and their fields will cause their loans to be called in, which the townspeople will be obliged to pay to me.”

  “Aye, Gov’nor. But if all the Dutch land is destroyed, how will they pay ye what they owe ye?”

  Rathburn laughed. “’Tis a problem, indeed.” Again Rathburn hesitated. “Perhaps the land will have to be confiscated as payment.”

  “Ah. ’Tis a means by which to extend your influence?”

  “Exactly,” agreed Rathburn. “Their fields will be ready to bear more tobacco within a year or perhaps two, and the Dutch will be obliged to work the fields, which will then belong to me.”

  “Ah, now I understand.”

  “Do ye? Do ye grasp it in full, then?”