Black Eagle Read online

Although Thompson was aware that he might not be the most intelligent of people, he was bright enough to know when he’d floundered into a good thing.

  His enterprise with John Rathburn was, indeed, a good one. Over the years, Thompson had hired out his services to Rathburn for the more delicate occasions when Rathburn required an opponent to be eliminated. True, Thompson knew of his shortcomings, but he was thorough in his work, and most importantly, he operated in complete secrecy.

  Bad things were known to happen. It was a rough land here in America, a dangerous environment, a place where accidents were commonplace. And if at times Thompson ensured that accidents did indeed happen, where was the fault?

  Though constructed to be sturdy, the wooden steps quivered beneath Thompson’s weight as he made his way to the front door of the Rathburn estate. He was under no illusions as to what was the purpose of Rathburn’s summons. However, little could he have envisioned that on this one occasion, even he was to be startled.

  “I’s here to see Rathburn,” he stated to the butler, who answered the ring of the bell.

  James, Rathburn’s butler, nodded succinctly. He did not extend his hand to take Thompson’s overcoat as was customary. Instead James backed up, away from Thompson, sniffing indignantly. “Mr. Rathburn is expecting you. This way, please.”

  With barely a glance at the butler, Thompson grunted out a response and followed the man into Rathburn’s private office.

  “Ah, there ye are, Thompson. Thank ye, James. We will require a bottle of brandy, two glasses and complete privacy. No one, and that includes my niece, is to disturb us. Do ye understand?”

  “Clearly, sir,” said James, who left posthaste. He returned shortly thereafter, and set out the liquor and glasses on a table. “Do you wish me to pour, sir?”

  “No, James, that will be all.”

  James nodded and quit the room so quickly, one might have thought evil lurked there.

  His hasty departure left an awkward silence in its wake that was even unnerving to Thompson. To cover the gap, Rathburn slowly poured the brandy into the two glasses and offered one of them to Thompson, who shot down the liquor as though it were no more than a spot of warm tea.

  Rathburn seemed to take a longer time in his enjoyment of the brew. After some moments, he said, “Have ye ever considered a bath, Richard?”

  “What fer?”

  Rathburn didn’t answer, sighed instead, and continued, “I have an unusual task for ye, Thompson.”

  Thompson grunted, nodding. “Who is it to be this time, gov’nor?”

  Rathburn didn’t hesitate to answer, stating forthwith, “My niece.”

  Thompson spat out whatever liquid was left in his mouth. “Come again?”

  “The person in question is my niece.”

  “Miss Marisa?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But I’s met Miss Marisa.” Thompson, for all that he might be immune from that deterrent called scruples, was yet taken aback. “She is young and…”

  “My ward?”

  “Bonny. I was going to say bonny.”

  “That she is,” said Rathburn. “She will also be heir to a small fortune, when she comes of age to inherit. A fortune, I might add, that I will lose to some young suitor in the near future, if I cannot convince her to marry the man of my choice.”

  “Then ye is jealous of her?”

  “No.” Rathburn strode to his desk, where he opened a drawer and removed a pistol. “But I fear she has become much too inquisitive and an embarrassment to me. She has recently confronted me with certain information about my business which she came into possession of in an unusual manner, and that information is…delicate. Further, she made it known to me that she fears me not.” Sitting in a chair pulled up behind his desk, Rathburn studied the pistol, before he proceeded to prime it. “I am afraid that her dangerousness to me has recently exceeded her worth.”

  “But have ye not raised her from when she was a small child?” Thompson asked.

  “So I have.” Rathburn shrugged, then smirked. “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh.”

  “I have never kilt a woman. Could ye not simply send her abroad? Perhaps to the nuns?”

  “That I could. But she presses me now, and there is damage she could do to me before I am able to make arrangements to send her overseas. She has threatened me.” He set down his pistol and spread his hands out over the desk.

  It did not escape Thompson’s regard that Rathburn’s eyes burned momentarily with a fire of insanity. In reaction, all three hundred pounds of Thompson quivered. Rathburn, however, was continuing. “She plans to take her maid east to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. ’Tis a place where our family has often summered. There are friends there who will welcome her. I believe my niece hopes to find her maid other employment there. However, it is my intention that neither she nor her maid should arrive there…alive.”

  Thompson flinched. “The maid too?”

  “I am afraid so. It would appear that my dear niece has shared her knowledge with her maid.”

  “Two women. Not one, but two. I’ve never kilt a woman afore,” he repeated.

  “If ye feel ye cannot to do the job… Of course ye do realize I am paying double for yer services.”

  Thompson hesitated. Under his breath, he muttered, “The way through New Hampshire is through woods that are deep in Indian country, the Abenaki.”

  “Indeed, it is so,” said Rathburn. “How fortunate. Many accidents could happen along the way.”

  Thompson pulled at his collar. “The Abenakis are not friendly to England. Could I not save ye the trouble and expense of a journey, and do the deed here?”

  “I should say not. ’Twould be an outrage. Why, the townspeople might question my ability to provide protection, might even doubt my worthiness to guardianship, which of course would include the loss of her fortune, should their doubts prove true. No, indeed, an accident along the path north and east ’tis better.”

  Thompson was not convinced, and he stalled further. “What ye need is a scout, and I’s no scout.”

  “Ye may have leave to hire one, though I doubt ye’ll need one, since the deed could be done once ye are outside of Albany.”

  “But what if a chance to end it quickly does not prove itself in so timely a manner?”

  “Then ye will need a map and a guide. An Indian scout would be best since any other might give witness against ye.” Pivoting the pistol in his hand, Rathburn pretended to check its sights. “Of course, if ye decide the task is beyond ye to perform, the assignment is not an obligation.”

  Rathburn’s statement was a veiled, unstated threat, and Thompson well understood it. He grimaced. Truth be told, Thompson might be many things—a bully, an executioner, an assassin—but his business was typically conducted with stealth, and always under the cover of darkness. In truth, no threat to himself had ever presented itself to him.

  This last was a pointed detail. For there was one particular aspect to Thompson’s character that ruled his existence: He was an unprecedented coward.

  He glanced once at the pistol Rathburn so ungraciously handled. He wiped his lips, setting his mind to the fact that his future recommendations in this rather unsavory business would hereafter include two women. Then, said Thompson, “Do ye have that map here?”

  “I do, indeed.”

  “Oh, look!” Marisa dragged Sarah toward a merchant who was selling one of the largest pumpkins Marisa had ever seen. “I think we should ask Cook to make us a pumpkin pie for our trip.”

  Sarah smiled and shook her head. “And how are we to transport a pie?”

  Marisa pulled a face. “’Tis a fair point you make, since we will be traveling with only the three horses. Perhaps Cook could bake the pie before we set out upon our journey.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Come.” Marisa pulle
d Sarah with her, threading her way through the crowd.

  The Albany marketplace was bustling with humanity on this fine and warm autumn day. Scents of baked cornbread, stewing apples and pumpkin pie had drawn a large crowd to the market, and the ambience surrounding the patrons on this day was delightful, the air brimming with the hum of goodwill and camaraderie. Conversation and laughter buzzed around Marisa and Sarah as they shifted slowly through the crowd, while a young male servant followed in their wake.

  To their right, a small crowd had gathered around a juggler, who was quite a handsome gentleman. In the distance straight ahead of them, actors were performing a puppet show, much to the delight of several children.

  Both Marisa and Sarah paused to sample the delights of some baked apples and cornbread, sharing their find with the boy who accompanied them. In due time, they approached the pumpkin vendor.

  “Are you not excited about our trip?” asked Marisa as they gathered ’round the vendor.

  “Very,” said Sarah. “I admit that this journey comes at a fortunate moment, since the urge to leave Albany, if only for a little while, has taken hold of me.”

  “Yes, although perhaps we might find the mountains of New Hampshire more to our liking, extending the length of our trip into something more permanent.”

  Sarah frowned. “Pardon?”

  Marisa’s gaze danced off Sarah. Had she said too much? In an effort to shield Sarah, Marisa had not mentioned her meeting with John Rathburn of a few days previous. Nor did she intend to do so now. Hoping to conceal her error, Marisa rushed on to say, “Which one of the pumpkins do you think we should buy?”

  “I think,” replied Sarah, after only a slight hesitation, “that we should purchase two pumpkins. You pick one, and so will I.”

  “Yes. A good suggestion. I’ll take that one,” said Marisa, anxious to put the subject of their coming journey behind them. As Marisa handed over the coinage to the merchant, she spied movement out of the corner of her eye. What was that? The image of a man? An Indian?

  Her stomach dropped. Was it the savage? The young man who had uttered such golden words to her?

  Distracted, Marisa let the servant boy pick up the pumpkin for her, while she glanced to her left to attain a better look. She caught her breath. It was a Mohawk Indian certainly. But it was not he.

  The butterflies that had taken flight within her commenced to settle down, and Marisa inhaled deeply. What was wrong with her? Had she lost all sense of propriety? How could she be reacting in such a positive manner to a man who was commonly thought of as beneath her station? Was she bored perhaps?

  “I’ll take this one,” said Sarah to the vendor, not noticing that her charge’s attention was devoted elsewhere. “Please…” Sarah motioned the servant boy forward, “…take these back to the cook, ask her to make a pie for this evening, and then return here. I’m certain we’ll have more purchases.” She smiled at him, and the boy, deeply impressed, hurried off to do as bid.

  “Sarah,” asked Marisa, “what do you think of the close-cropped hairstyle of the Mohawk Indians?”

  Sarah gazed quickly at her charge, then toward the place where Marisa was staring. “As long as it’s closely cropped and not bald, I think ’tis fine.” Sarah smiled. “I must admit that I have a liking for their long hair in back.”

  “I too.” Marisa, who was still looking off toward the Indians, asked further, “Why do you think they shave their heads?”

  “I really don’t know, nor have I ever given it any real thought. But now that you ask, I’d say that on some of the Indians, the style is attractive. On others…”

  Marisa nodded. “Sarah, let me ask you a more personal question, if I may.”

  “You may.”

  “Do you think, much as the other colonists do, that the Indians are savage?”

  Sarah drew her brows together and scowled at Marisa. “The Indians practice torture on some of their captives, and I believe that torture is a savage practice.”

  “Yes, indeed, it is. But is our society any better?”

  Sarah paused. “Come again?”

  “Have we not burned witches? Have we not drawn and quartered our enemies, boiled men and sometimes women in oil?”

  “True, but—”

  “Should one judge all people in a particular society based on the actions of a few?”

  Sarah gave her charge a considering glance. “You are most philosophical today. To what do I owe such uncharacteristic observations?” When Marisa didn’t deign to answer at once, Sarah said, “My dear Marisa, in all these many years, I have never noticed you to be curious about either the Indians or their way of life. Why are you now?”

  Marisa shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that I’m curious. It’s simply that… Take William Johnson, for instance, and Johnson Hall. He has made a strong alliance with the Mohawk Indians, and I have heard that the Indians use his property at their ease. I have also gathered from various people that the Indians have made Johnson Hall the center of their government. And it is common knowledge that Johnson himself has taken a Mohawk wife, that the children from that union are strong and able-bodied, and…”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow at Marisa. “Has something happened to cause this sudden interest in ideology?”

  “No. Well, perhaps. A young Mohawk warrior spoke to me the other day—”

  “With or without introduction?”

  “Without. But he was so admiring of me that I forgave him. He made me smile.”

  “Smile? What did he say?”

  “He told me that my beauty had touched his heart.”

  “His heart?” Sarah paused, sighing. “Oh, my dear Marisa, beware.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it appears to me that he might have captured your admiration in a fashion that even your own peers have not. Has he?”

  “I am only curious about him.”

  Sarah arched a brow. “Do not become too curious. It would not do to become infatuated with such a man as he is, since no earthly good could ever come of it.”

  “I speak of mere interest. Nothing more.”

  “I do hope so. Though we live side by side with these Mohawk people, one would not seek a husband from amongst them. Such an association could never be.”

  “A husband? Oh, Sarah, please. Let me assure you that such a detail is not, and has never been, within my thoughts. You, more than any other person, should know I never intend to marry. Never.”

  “Yes, but beware. When a man speaks to you of matters of the heart, he is courting you.”

  Wide-eyed, Marisa asked, “Do you believe it may be so? Do you feel he might have been courting me?”

  Sarah shook her head, then cast a contemplative glance at the Indians. At length, she returned her attention to Marisa. “Beware, Miss Marisa. It seems to me as though you might favor this man’s attention.”

  “Pshaw! Let him court me all he likes. It will not matter to me, since my heart will never to be given to any man.”

  “’Tis a child’s decision, Miss Marisa, that you made long ago. But a woman fully grown might entertain other ideas. And if she does, let me warn you that unhappiness lies in the direction of infatuation with an Indian.”

  “Yes. However, do you suppose there might be more unhappiness from the Indian than if I were to permit my guardian to choose a mate for me?”

  “Most likely not.” Sarah paused and, perhaps more philosophical now, said, “If your uncle has anything to do with it, I fear that you could be forced to wed an old man, who would be soon to die.”

  “True. And perhaps that might come to pass if I were to entertain the idea of marriage. But, alas, it will never be for me. What I decided as a child will remain with me all my life. Of that I am certain.”

  “I’ve never understood it,” Sarah began slowly. “When you were young, I thought your resolve
was a whim that would soon pass. But in all this time, it still remains. Why are you so against marriage to any man, even one of your own choosing?”

  Marisa shrugged. “I don’t know, except that I once dreamt that my step-uncle lectured me about marriage. It was not pleasant, and I cried for many days.” She frowned. “That dream stayed with me and threatened me it seemed…” As though her head suddenly hurt, she brought her hands up to it, her brows drawn together.

  Sarah’s look was concerned but distant. “Your uncle is who he is, and he is a financier. I fear that within a year, perhaps two, you will be expected to marry…whether you wish it or not.”

  “I will never do it.”

  “So you say. Still, I fear it. Therefore, although I have great reservation against such advice, I believe it might be well that you seek to have amusement wherever you might find it, be that source Mohawk or English…providing it is innocent, of course.” She nodded toward the Indians. “Shall we go, then, and speak to those young men? Ask them if they know where we might find your Mohawk suitor?”

  “Sarah! We shall do no such thing! Why, the idea is vulgar, indeed.”

  “Then let us leave here. We have more shopping to do yet this day.” Sarah paused. “Oh, do look over there. Someone has made apple cider. Shall we go and sample their wares?”

  “Yes,” said Marisa. “Yes.”

  So, with the subject tabled—at least for the moment—the two women picked up the chiffon material of their skirts and headed in the direction of the next vending stand.

  “Your grandmother has sent me to you. I carry her message.”

  Black Eagle frowned at the young Mohawk runner. The youth was minimally dressed in breechcloth and knee-high moccasins. Though there was little physically to show his stress, Black Eagle was aware that the lad was recently arrived and that he had come this distance as quickly as he could.

  That they were standing in the middle of the English marketplace was a disadvantage, for there was little Black Eagle could do to welcome his grandmother’s messenger, as was proper Mohawk courtesy.

  “Let us break tradition and allow me hear out this message before we pause to refresh ourselves,” said Black Eagle. “Tell me, what has my grandmother to say that has sent you here so desperately?”