The Fourth of July is a day of celebration for Americans. Independence Day we call it. In Britain, it's the War of Rebellion. Either way, it's a great excuse to get together and barbecue, eat watermelon, and if it's legal, shoot off fireworks.
It was very different in 1781. I wrote about it in NAKED IN THE WINTER WIND, the first book in The Fairies Saga series.
You can read 'The Fifth Fourth' for free in KIBBLES AND BITS, short stories/excerpts from the first five books in the series. Oh, and in it you'll also find out how I got such crazy names for my books. Oh, and did I mention that it's free on many sites?
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THE FIFTH FOURTH (A rather lengthy excerpt from Naked in the Winter Wind, a time travel novel, and Kibbles and Bits, the sampler book of the first five books in the series)
July 4, 1781
North Carolina
Today was a day of
celebration for many of us, and just another summer day for the Tories and
Loyalists. Independence Day number five was an affirmation and show of unity
for all of us who had kept the faith and persevered, and who were still
striving to win the conflict with England. Tonight, all up and down the eastern
seaboard and in all thirteen colonies, American patriots would observe the
fifth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence with
parties, drinking, banners, and bragging. There would be cannons blasting, guns
saluting, and rockets painting the night sky with festive fire, acknowledging
our gratefulness to God, our soldiers, and the Continental Congress for working
together toward our deliverance from English tyranny.
We were still at war,
but I knew beyond a hiccup of a doubt that we would win this. My faith was
contagious to others, too. Jody was aware of the outcome before I showed up
because of Sarah and her knowledge of English and American ‘history,’ but he
was absolutely passionate about our new form of government, as if he had
discovered it himself.
I felt privileged to
be able to observe his finesse in promoting the push for our new country’s
independence. He was easily wound up, and preached whenever he saw an
opportunity. He knew how to use his size, bearing, and voice to great
advantage. He would start low, just a comment or an aside, to someone in town.
“Better a free mouse than a slaved cat,” he was fond of saying.
The crowd would grow
as people curious about the tall red-haired man would stop, watch him
gesticulate with those long arms and broad hands, and listen to his booming
voice hawk the merits of self-rule. The crescendo moved into an awesome finale,
a passionate speech, sweeping all within earshot of him into a roaring fever of
patriotism and hope. Then, to make sure they understood the concept, he would
give his short comprehensive summary of what we were fighting for.
“We will make this a
great country. We will have the right to say how we govern ourselves; we will
elect our own people to enact the
laws, interpret the laws, and enforce the laws. This will be the
greatest nation on earth: one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and
justice for all!”
His powerful speeches
and the boldness of Angus and other printers to publish booklets and
broadsheets to spread the word even further enabled the masses to understand
how great our potential was. There were other great speakers around, and I’m
sure glad they were all Americans. The Loyalists evidently didn’t feel as if
they had to support or prove their side of the conflict. I guess the fine art
of political debate would have to wait a few generations until broader venues
were available.
Not all of the
well-spoken American patriots made it, or will make it, through this war,
though. “I regret that I have but one life to give for my country,” were
powerful words spoken by a very young 21-year-old, Nathan Hale, just before he
was executed by the British in 1776. These words helped inspire the fight for a
new nation. Jody’s words may not be remembered 230 years into the future, but
he didn’t—oh, my God, I hope he doesn’t—die a martyr.
Maybe the pen is mightier than the sword. If Hale’s
affirmation and the words of others had never been written down and shared
within this fledgling nation, would we have been as brave and fearless? Young
America was certainly underpowered as far as weapons, money, and a navy were
concerned. Yes, the American spirit, shared in voice and spread in ink, was
definitely what won—will win—the war for independence.
I
couldn’t—wouldn’t—live in fear for my life or the lives of my family. Our
future Constitution and Bill of Rights would be to protect us from fear. But
today, right here, right now, lingering Loyalist factions were still pressing
their interests, both personal and respective to the Crown, into our lives.
Word came through the
usual local news network—paranoid gossip with a smattering of fact thrown
in—that a motley crew of disgruntled Loyalists was roaming the area, collecting
taxes without regard to who the property owners were or their delinquency
status. As far as we knew, the ‘maybe they were, maybe they weren’t British
soldiers’ had no valid basis for the tax they were collecting. These bandits
were working solely by intimidation. If the landowner couldn’t pay hard cash,
they would take anything of value they could put their hands on. If the
landowner refused, bloodshed ensued. There was a term for this course of action
in my time: extortion.
We had heard the
rumors and were cautious, and never left our little homestead unattended. Today
Wallace was the sentinel, staying home with me and the babies.
Jody and Sarah had
gone into the little big town of Gibsonville for the latest news, salt, and a
few other staples. Sarah had insisted on bringing the wagon, hoping that they
would be able to bring home some of those flat stones that were down by the
creek. I guessed what she wanted were what I called flagstones.
“I want a solid floor, Jody, and one without
splinters, one that I can cover with rugs in the winter and have cool to my
feet in the summer. Nothing can stay clean with this hard-packed earth as a
floor. Pretty soon the babies will be crawling, and we don’t want them scooting
around on this, do we?”
She had a good
argument, and he knew it. Julian said that José had more rugs than they could
use at their house. Evidently his mother, Señora Rojas, had been quite the
collector. José, although he probably would have given them to us just to be
rid of them, was glad that he could offer them as gifts for the babies. He had
only seen the wee’uns once, when he had come to bring Julian back to the ranch
the week after they were born, and had fallen in love with them at first
sight.
“Tres, um, three? At
the same time?” he asked.
José had taken to
heart my suggestion and was speaking English as much as possible. He looked at
the petite crew, sleeping in one heap on the middle of Sarah and Jody’s bed. I
had only made two little baskets for use as bassinets when I was pregnant—not
knowing I would need three—but they slept better when snuggled up together and
fussed when separated. I guessed they had lived in close quarters for eight
months and weren’t quite ready to be apart.
Julian had just about
completed their new bed. “Wally, can you finish this for me? I thought I’d be
done by now, but I didn’t plan on, ahem, doing other things,” he carped, then
grinned. Julian had been roped into doing all of the cooking. Sarah’s hands
were still tender, and I was always busy tending to the input or output of the
babies.
“I’ll be glad to
cook, Julian,” I teased. “You just come over here and whip out your boob and
feed these little guys.” He glared at me and went back to cracking eggs for our
dinner omelet. His eggs were always good, too. Why did men always make the best
omelets? Maybe it was because that was the only dish they ever cooked. Practice
makes perfect and all that, you know.
So, Julian was back
with José, and Sarah and Jody were out harvesting river rock flooring, possibly
until tomorrow. Wallace and I had time to ourselves. Well, sort of—we still had
the babies to tend to. I took out the little Bible. “Is it okay if I get a head
start on finishing the birth records? I…well, I want to give them their last
names now, if it’s okay with you. You see, in my time, a baby can be given any
last name, not just the mother’s or father’s surname. You might think I’m a bit
twisted, but I think it would be kind of cute if they had your last name before
I did.”
“I would be honored
to give them my name,” he said proudly. He sighed then added, almost
apologetically, “The way the country is now; it’s only the name of Urquhart I
can give them. I think I have forfeited my title and the Falls Church estate as
a result of changing allegiances. It looks as if we will all be wearing
homespun for a long time.”
I looked up to see if
I could read anything in his face after his last soft-spoken remark. I could.
The love he was radiating was undeniable. He saw the insecure look in my eyes
and said, “A small price to pay for a bit of heaven on earth, I say. Even
without the babies, you alone are worth it.”
“Wow, um, thank you.”
I put down the mini Bible and reached up, clasping my arms around his neck, to
give him a smooch worthy of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in ‘From Here to
Eternity.’ I composed myself after the kiss, but couldn’t manage—and really
didn’t want—to get rid of my huge grin of satisfaction. “I’d better be careful;
if I don’t stop smiling so big, my face will freeze like this forever.”
“That would be fine by
me. I like seeing you happy. Now let me see that Bible.”
A card fell out as I
handed it to him: a business card. I hadn’t seen it when I put the babies’
birth date in the book; it must have been stuck between the pages. He picked it
up and glanced at it, then stared at it, as if he couldn’t believe what he was
seeing. “Where did you get this?” he asked coolly.
“I don’t know. It’s
new to me, which really isn’t saying much. Here, let me see.”
He let me take it,
but didn’t move his hand to offer it to me. He was shocked—at it or something
on it.
“It’s just a business
card—see,” I said and waved it in the air, showing off how harmless it was. “I
guess it was in my backpack and…oh, my,” I looked at the card, “isn’t your
uncle Lord Melbourne?”
“Yes, and that’s the
family’s coat of arms. But my uncle’s name isn’t James. I’ve never seen a card
like this. The paper is so smooth and shiny, the letters are raised, and the
printing is so, so perfect. What do all these numbers mean?”
“Those are phone
numbers. Remember when I told you about telephones? Phone numbers are how we
kept everyone indexed, sorted, and how we accessed them, I mean… Well, there
are also faxes, which need numbers, too, and emails, which use letters and/or
numbers. And gosh, look at that—he even has his own website.”
I set the card down.
This wasn’t working, and it wasn’t because I had overloaded him with my
rambling about numbers and modern technology. This 21st century
business card was from someone with his family name, actually his kin by the
use of the coat of arms and title. And I must have had it in my possession
since…well, at least since a minute before I arrived here from the 21st
century.
I lifted my suddenly
insecure fiancé’s chin and fixed my eyes on his half-closed ones. “Wallace, I think
this is from one of your relatives, or rather your relative’s descendants. But
I swear I don’t know how I got this. I don’t have any feelings for or about
this card, or this ‘James Melbourne’ person, at all!”
I hadn’t started out
to be emotional or excited about a silly old slip of thick paper. Good grief,
it was just a business card. I received cards like this all the time in my
previous life. I think. But this was ‘when’ I was, here and now. It should be
no big deal after seeing the smartphone a few weeks ago, but this had something
to do with Wallace and Julian’s heritage. Or whatever the opposite of heritage
was: descentage?
Wallace’s head was
bowed and still. I looked at the card again, then gave it back to him. He
rubbed his thumb over the embossed lettering. “Oh, well,” he remarked
nonchalantly, then lifted his head to gaze at me with a weak smile, “another
mystery.”
“Like bumblebees,” I
said with a one-shoulder shrug of agreement.
He raised one eyebrow
and looked down his nose, asking me wordlessly, “Explain, please.”
“Aerodynamically,
bumblebees aren’t supposed to be able to fly, but they do. You know, fat little
bodies and itty-bitty wings? An eagle soaring, that’s easy to see, but those
chunky little buggers popping from flower to flower, mathematically and
scientifically shouldn’t be able to fly. A mystery, but real; something we
accept and don’t try to explain.”
“Okay, a bumblebee,”
he said and shoved the card back into the Bible.
“Maybe we can do the
names a little later,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling insecure.
He looked over at me
and saw that my big happy smile had managed to totally disappear and was now
approaching a frown. “We have the first and last names. Why don’t we figure out
a few middle names before we enter them in the Bible? After all, we aren’t
going anywhere.”
“Okay,” I chirped,
popping right out of my funk, “fine by me.”
And it was. Now what
were some good middle names, and how many should I give each child? Those were
happy posers for me to consider and didn’t even begin to drag me down into
curiosity about my unknown past.
Ӂ Ӂ Ӂ
Wallace went to the
barn to continue with his woodworking. He was finishing the babies’
playpen/crib that Julian had started. I was hoping to get a few minutes to
myself before a baby woke up. I grabbed a clean cloth and filled a small pot
with fresh water. I sat on the porch and untied my shirt. I felt icky, covered
with baby spit-up and sweat. I wet the cloth and wiped from my forehead down to
my neck. I rinsed the cloth and washed the top of my breasts then rinsed again.
Ah, now the best part. I lifted one of my heavy breasts, and washed away the
perspiration and spilled milk. The babies all nursed well, as in vigorously,
but they all seemed to fall asleep with a mouthful of milk. It dribbled out their
lips, and down and underneath my breasts. It wasn’t always possible to clean up
after each feeding. There was always another one waiting to be fed or changed.
My little sponge bath
was just the pick me up I needed. I felt almost as clean as if I’d taken a
whole bath. Maybe I’d be able to do that later on tonight.
It was still early,
but looked like it was going to be another miserably hot day. There wasn’t a white
spot in the sky, which was good. I didn’t mind the heat, but I hated the
humidity that came with the clouds and haze. I decided to be brazen and leave
my shirt open so I could thoroughly dry out. I knew I’d be able to hear anyone
coming before they could see me, so I put my legs up and kicked back on the
porch bench, ready to catch some rays and vitamin D.
I looked up at the
north end of the porch through squinted eyes and visualized a swing. I’d have
to show Wallace how they were made where I came from—or would that be when I
came from? It would be nice to have one wide enough for two adults to share.
And it shouldn’t take much more effort to hang three little swings from the
porch beam.
I was fantasizing
about swinging and fresh air when someone threw a cloth over my chest. I looked
down and saw it was a diaper off of the clothesline.
“Cover up, quick,” a
husky voice ordered.
I did, hurriedly
tying together my blouse underneath the cloth—at the same time, looking for my
modesty policeman. I didn’t see him, but did see a rider coming in at a fast
pace, kicking up a twisty, tan dust cloud, followed by a wagon with three men.
I searched again for
the cloth-tosser, but didn’t see anyone. I called for Wallace, but he didn’t
answer. Something fishy was going on, and I was starting to get scared.
The rider, a
scruffy-looking British soldier, jerked back hard on the reins when he saw me,
and came to a gravel-crunching stop. He had kicked his horse hard and
repeatedly to get her to the house so quickly. Fresh blood was oozing from the
gouges in the long-legged black mare’s flanks. I looked over and saw that,
although the man was dressed in a tattered and filthy British officer’s
uniform, he was wearing Spanish spurs—mean, ugly, sharp ones that would give the
SPCA and PETA fits.
I walked to the edge
of the porch to greet the stranger. “Can I help you, sir,” I said in my bravest
voice. My knees felt watery, but gratefully, they still held me up. I reached
out and held onto the porch post in order to give myself more stability. My
courageous demeanor would mean nothing if I passed out from fright right in
front of him.
“I’m the new tax
collector and I see that,” he pulled out a little booklet that looked like one
of those cheap dirty novels that made the circuit, “this household has not paid
any taxes this year.”
I leaned in closer to
see if I could see the name of his little novella. He quickly pulled it close
to his chest, and shoved it back into his jacket pocket.
He was lying, and I
wasn’t the least bit subtle with my distrustful leer, letting him know that I
knew he did not have a tax-roll book in his jacket.
“I think you’re
mistaken, sir,” I said with a newfound confidence, “we are current on our
taxes. Someone must have given you the wrong book.” Then I glared at him,
daring him to challenge me.
That was probably a
bad move. He was not a nice man by the looks of his horse’s bleeding flesh. I
quickly backpedaled, “I’m sure it wasn’t your mistake though, sir.” I batted my
eyelashes, hoping to cover my tough northern girl persona with a charming young
southern belle flirtation. “Good help is so hard to find nowadays,” I added
demurely.
I should have
continued with the engaging debutante role and asked if he would like a drink
of water, but I really wanted him gone. Just as I was wondering what to do
next, my decision was made for me. The creepy soldier jumped up onto the porch
and literally got in my face.
“What’s a sweet young
thing like you doing out here all alone? Did your menfolk go out and get
themselves killed by the mean old British soldiers?”
His breath reeked of
rum and rotten teeth. I took two steps back to get away from him, but he
advanced three.
“If you’re lonely, I
can be real friendly,” he cooed.
His hands reached for
my hair, but my reflexes were fast, and he didn’t get a chance to touch me.
Instead, it was I who reached out. I instinctively slapped him across his
stubble-whiskered cheek before I could think.
“Oh, you shouldn’t
have done that, little lady. I don’t take to violence. At least I don’t like being hit. I do like to
inflict a little pain every now and then, though. I find it—rather, arousing…”
He dragged the last
word out in a most perverse manner. I had ducked and drawn away from him with
the slap, but he was closing in on me, making sure I didn’t have an escape
route. He was between me and the steps now. I could hear his heavy breathing
and smell his rummy breath. He reached down and grabbed the front of his pants.
“Give the taxman his due, little lady, and maybe he won’t take too much from
your little bitty home. The wagon is fairly full already, but what I’d really
like…”
“Mama, Mama,” the
little boy said as he popped up between the extortionist and me. “I’m back. Did
ye miss me?”
I reached down and
clutched the unknown dark-haired boy to me, and hugged him hard. “Oh, I did
miss you,” I said sincerely, keeping hold of this little person who had just
stopped an assault. He was about ten years old and wiry—hard, skinny, and
definitely clever.
“Father says that
he’ll be right back. He and uncle and cousin and all the men from the…the…the
store will be here any minute. He says he loves ye and misses ye.”
The little boy
stammered on where the menfolk were, and I hoped the taxman—or whoever he
was—had missed his little sign of lying.
“Thank you, dear,” I
said as I brushed his wayward hair out of his eyes.
I gasped, glad that
my back was toward the soldier. I suddenly realized who this boy must be, and I
was sure the look of shock showed on my face. He had to be Ian’s son! His
features, that hair that wouldn’t go where it was supposed to, and those soft
brown eyes—if he wasn’t Ian’s son, I was a rhinoceros.
My momentary trance
was broken by the sound of a baby crying. It was little Danielle. If I didn’t
get to her soon, she’d have her brothers awake and screaming with her. “I need
to take care of my daughter,” I said as I excused myself, not waiting to see if
he had any objections. No one was going to keep me from my babies.
The little boy
followed me inside. He literally stood guard at the door as I sat on a kitchen
chair and bared a breast to both quiet and feed her.
“Get out of here,”
growled the little boy. “This house is for family only.”
There wasn’t any sign
of fear in his voice, and I realized why. I think he knew I was feeding his
sister; she was his family.
My back was turned
away from the opened door—I wanted at least a modicum of privacy in nursing—and
I didn’t see it coming.
“Move out of the way,
boy. I wanna see what we have here.” I heard the shuffle of bodies in
contention, and turned around just in time to see Little Ian fly through the
air. The taxman had lifted him bodily and tossed him into the corner like a
dirty shirt.
I stood up and backed
away from the man as he neared me with a lusty smirk. “Ooh, a little one, but
she’s too little right now. Give her
a couple of years, and she’ll be just right.”
“Keep away, you
bastard,” I hissed, controlling the urge to scream—I didn’t want to startle the
baby. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Little Ian had come to his
wits, and was inching our way.
“Now lookie there;
she is a fresh one, isn’t she? I’ll bet you and your husband—if there even is a
husband—haven’t had relations since she was born.”
He reached up to
brush my breasts with his huge, filthy hand, but I feigned right and dodged
him. Now I was on the other side of him, and could easily run outside. But I
couldn’t leave him in the house with my other two babies. One of them was sure
to awaken soon.
He glared at me,
angry at my clever escape. It was a stare-down, and I won. Sort of. His eyes
changed focus and peered down, leering at the opening of my blouse. Then he
looked up to my gold nugget necklace, and another kind of lust appeared.
“Aarrgghh!” I caught
sight of the tanned buckskinned-clad boy just as he tackled the taxman behind
the legs, effectively knocking the much bigger man flat on his back…and
evidently the wind out of his lungs. The man’s mouth was moving, but his chest
was still. He couldn’t draw a breath
“Hmph,” I snorted. I
didn’t care if he ever breathed again.
Little Ian stood
above his prey, a dirk in his hand, his foot ready to stomp on the man’s
windpipe if he should try to rise. “Shall I cut him?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered
angrily in emotional reflex. “Cut him? Oh, no,” I said as I suddenly realized
what he meant.
“Too late,” he said.
I was afraid that he
had meant kill him, but he hadn’t. Nevertheless, he really had cut him. The
taxman had a ‘Y’ cut into his cheek. He still couldn’t breathe, though, and was
beginning to turn blue. Little Ian stepped back and kicked him hard under the
ribcage. The man gasped, and his color started to return with the intake of
air.
I heard a noise in
the doorway, saw that it was Wallace, and was relieved.
And then it was
terror time all over again.
I noticed the look in
Wallace’s eyes and the knife at his neck—he was being held hostage. Three men
were standing behind him, grinning like cats at an overstocked fishpond. The
taxman’s reinforcements had arrived.
Judah and Leo chose
that moment to wake up and call for their lunch. I let them scream. I knew an
infant’s cry was irritating to a human male’s eardrum. The high pitch actually
caused men physical pain…or so I recalled reading or hearing…somewhere. If I
could irritate the intruders in an unobtrusive manner, maybe they wouldn’t be
able to think clearly. Then Wallace, the boy, and I could find a way out of
this mess.
The boy! If Ian’s son
was here—and how in the hell did he have a son that he didn’t, or wouldn’t,
tell me about?—then Ian was around here somewhere. That made me feel better—I
had an invisible ally.
Surely Ian would want
his prey out in the open where he could see them. Now I felt like I was part of
a rescue team, and my partner was out there somewhere, just waiting for me to
flush out his quarry.
“How about if we go
outside where it isn’t so noisy,” I suggested as I put Danielle down into the
nest of quilts on the bed. I picked up Leo—he was protesting the loudest—turned
my back on the men, and let the baby start nursing. There was no reason for him
to be deprived of lunch. And right now, I needed him as much as he needed me.
Leo and I followed
the gruesome foursome outside. I hoped Wallace, the boy, the babies, and I had
someone—my modesty policeman maybe?—to help us.
The taxman was a bit
loopy from his assault, but managed to grasp onto one of his cronies, and made
it to the porch bench. Little Ian—or should that be Wee Ian?—had picked up
little Judah, and brought him outside to be with me. He was cooing and cuddling
the baby; actually doing a great job of distracting the little two-week-old—oh
my, Judah was his little brother!
I took a deep breath
to compose myself. Too much had just happened, and I couldn’t handle it, even
with the aid of my little dark-haired champion. “Lord, help us,” I prayed
softly to the man upstairs.
“Who you talkin’ to,”
asked the skinny man who still had a knife to Wallace’s neck.
“God,” I answered
with self-assurance. I suddenly felt braver because I knew He would help us.
“You know, the man who gave us ‘thou shalt not kill’ and ‘thou shalt not steal’
and about eight other good ‘thou shalt nots’ to live by.”
“Hmph,” was the
monosyllabic reply from the man who looked like he had a single digit IQ.
Okay, maybe I could
work this in my favor. The taxman was evidently the head honcho in this little
extortion ring. Right now, he was pretty much out of commission. His three apes
were apparently trying to keep up the intimidation and theft gambit, and
weren’t quite sure about what to do next.
“Would you believe
that you have a knife to the neck of General William Howe’s son?” I asked. “You
do know who General Howe is, don’t you?”
Skinny looked at the
other two, and they all shrugged their shoulders.
Gee, maybe these guys were too dumb to fool.
“General Howe is a big time British general, and his brother is ‘Admiral’
Richard Howe. You know him, of course. Everybody
knows him,” I said dramatically.
Skinny started
bobbing his head, then the others did, too. “Yeah, we know ‘em; everybody knows him,” the bald one said
enthusiastically. He was lying and I knew it.
Of course, I wasn’t
lying. I hadn’t said that Wallace was the general’s son. I had said ‘Would you
believe?’ and they did.
“Now,” I continued
with great sincerity, “if the Howe family found out that you hurt one of their
own kin... My, my, there would be, pardon the vulgarity, hell to pay.”
The boys were getting
nervous now. “But we can’t leave without takin’ somethin’,” the bald
one—evidently the new leader—said.
“Now, how are you
going to get your—captain, is he?—home with all of this ‘stuff’ in the back of
your wagon?”
I walked over to the
wagon and lifted one edge of the canvas tarp covering it. I couldn’t see what
was in the little barrels, but I could
smell it. They had gunpowder. Kegs and kegs of gunpowder. I wasn’t a betting
person, but still I’d bet those long boxes under the seat had rifles or muskets
in them.
“I’ll tell you what,
why don’t you just unload this wagon here, and then your captain can ride in
the b…”
“Shut up, bitch,”
boomed an angry voice from the porch. Taxman had regained his senses, and was
reclaiming control. “I’m going to take you for everything you’ve got. Including
that little boy of yours, the bastard,” he said as he reached up to feel the
wound on his cheek.
I needed to think of
what to do next, so I stalled. Leo had finished nursing, so I moved him off the
breast and covered myself in one smooth move. As I walked back up the porch
steps to be near Danielle, I put him over my shoulder to burp him. Five seconds
passed, and I still hadn’t had a brainstorm.
Taxman had moved from
the bench to the porch post, and was trying to stand up straight by himself,
testing his balance without using his cronies as crutches. They were mumbling
amongst themselves, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.
I was scared, staring
off into space, not knowing what to do next, when I felt the tugging at my
elbow, a small hand trying to get my attention.
“Here, Mama, I’ll
take him,” Wee Ian said as he handed me Judah who, although not screaming, was
making faces and shaking his fists in frustration. I swapped out babies, and
saw the boy’s eyes shift to the barn.
“Thank you, dear,” I
said. “You’re such a good big brother.” I got Judah started on lunch, then
turned to face Taxman. He was able to stand alone now, only touching the porch
post for security.
I cleared my throat
to get the captain’s attention. He looked down at me with disgust, but I didn’t
mind. I’d rather have him look at me like that than with his earlier ogles and
leers. “Sir, I don’t think you have the situation under control like you think
you do.”
My confidence level
was Rocky Mountain high, and I was letting it shine. I tossed my hair back, and
stuck out my chin. “You see, right now you are being targeted by a very angry
man. He doesn’t take too kindly to his kin being threatened. So, I suggest that
you let his cousin go…right now!” I
dipped my head down to accentuate my guttural threat, and glared into his eyes,
an angry bull daring the toreador to approach.
Skinny let his knife
fall away from Wallace’s neck, but Taxman interceded. “Not so quick there,
mate,” he said. Skinny brought the knife up again, straightened his back, and
froze, as if he were at attention.
“There’s still the
matter of the taxes, you see,” Taxman said as he worked his way toward me.
I sidled around him,
keeping eye contact. He had changed his demeanor back to letch mode. With it
came that ugly, lustful sneer. His eyes moved from my one covered breast,
ignoring the baby actively nursing, to the other side, and then back up my
throat to the gold nugget necklace.
“Oh, and I know that you’re lying about a marksman
in the barn,” he said. “My men looked in there, and all they found was this wee
little patriot,” then he poked Wallace in the ribs with his silver-barreled
pistol.
I looked toward the
barn. I multitasked, holding the suckling baby with my right arm, lifting my
left hand straight up to the porch beam to point to a spot two feet above my
head. “Right here, Ian,” I yelled.
Zing! Twack.
An arrow hit the spot
I had pointed to. I looked over at our extortionist and grinned. “Now, let’s
talk terms, shall we?”
The captain glared at
me, obviously thinking of his options. He didn’t want to back down to
anyone—especially a woman—in front of his men, and didn’t want to leave
empty-handed, either. He would have to let Wallace go, or get himself shot;
that was obvious. And I was far enough away now that he couldn’t grab me. I
wasn’t going to let him have two hostages.
Wee Ian had
disappeared during all of this, and had put Leo on the bed with his sister. He
was back now—his knife in hand and a squint in his eye—just daring the captain
to make a move.
The tension was
smothering. Taxman turned toward Wee Ian and spat on the ground, aiming for the
boy’s feet. The boy jumped out of the way and stabbed him in the thigh at the
same time.
“Do ye really want me
to cut ye some more? Jest keep it up, and we willna have to waste an arrow.
I’ll bleed ye right here and now.” Wee Ian snarled with grim satisfaction.
“Willna bother me none.”
“Goddamn bastard,”
Taxman swore as he clutched his fresh leg wound. I could tell it was a deep
cut, but because of where it was, the blood was only dribbling, not gushing. I
was sure he hurt plenty, but the injury couldn’t be as painful as the
humiliation of being attacked by a child in front of his minions.
I glanced toward the
barn and realized that Ian, my first husband, the man who just two weeks
earlier I had been wishing was by my side to share in the pain and joy—in that
order—of the birth of my children, was less than a hundred feet away. The man
who had abandoned me, the one who I had longed for once upon a time, was just
across the yard. Flashbacks of the beaten and burned man I had rescued, the
weakened man who with his first flush of strength made love to me after
promising to never leave me, the man whose seed had spawned my three babies…
Focus, woman, focus! He’s just a tool in the woods, a weapon to help
resolve this conflict.
I stopped staring and
started glaring. Taxman was still grumbling about his leg and tying a
handkerchief around his thigh, eyes down on his first aid ministrations. I
glanced over and saw that Skinny still had the knife to Wallace’s throat.
Wallace’s eyes were on me, but were vacant. He wasn’t letting anyone
know—including me—what he was thinking.
“Wee Ian, take the
baby back to the bed, please. And don’t stab anyone unless I say so, okay?” I
covered myself up, put my finger in between my son’s mouth and my nipple to
break the bond, and then offered the bundle of baby to his big brother.
Wee Ian sheathed his
knife and walked over to me, but kept his eye on Taxman, his stare somewhere
between mocking and sheer hatred. “Asshole,” he said, as he looked the bigger
man in the eye.
I had to stifle my
laugh—it was such an appropriate name for the brigand. Wee Ian took the baby
from me and walked backwards into the house, throwing a quick glance in my
direction, making sure I was still safe. I nodded that I was okay, and then he
passed through the doorway, disappearing into the shadows.
As soon as the two
boys were safely inside, I squared my shoulders and growled, “Take that effin’
knife away from his throat.” Skinny dropped his knife—from either shock or
obedience—and Wallace stepped away, to stand at my side.
Taxman looked up, one
eyebrow raised in satisfaction. He had finished bandaging his leg and figured
out his next strategy: humiliation. His acne-scarred face screwed up into a
complete sneer as he asked Wallace, “Do you always let the woman do the
talking?”
“She seems to be
doing all right. If she needs help, she’ll ask.” Wallace nodded to me to
dismiss himself, then moved past the Taxman, intentionally bumping into the
man’s wounded leg on his way into the house.
“Good job, lad,” he
said to Wee Ian as he walked inside to check on the boy and the babies. Wallace
knew he wasn’t leaving me alone—the master archer was still watching over
me—and, as he said, I’d ask for help if I needed it.
“Okay, Captain
Asshole, is it?” I asked, not really wanting an answer.
He glared at me. He
had no intention of replying and I knew it. I’m sure he didn’t want me to know
who he was. I was definitely the type who had no qualms about spreading the
name of the crooked British officer who illegally collected taxes. And I’d also
let everyone know that the dirtbag had been overtaken and marked by a boy not
even old enough to have a whisker.
“So you want to
collect some ‘taxes’ from us, even though we’re current?” I asked
sarcastically.
His reply was to
stare at me, to try to intimidate me with his clenched jaws and barely audible
growl.
It wasn’t working. I
grinned in response, just to make sure he knew it.
“Well, what I want is
for you to be gone, and never to return again.” I paused for effect—and for the
muscle strength to return to my shaky legs. I shook my head at him with
disgust, “And since you are wearing a British uniform, you should be under some
sort of code of ethics.”
A snarl escaped his
raised lip at my remark, but I ignored it and continued. “So, I’ll let you go
with a bargain. You see, if you take anything from us, it would be considered
stealing since your ‘tax record’ is, shall we say, out of date. If I voluntarily give you the taxes for the
next ten years in advance, you’ll never come back. Sound like a deal?”
Wallace was standing
in the doorway now, pale at my words, but quiet out of respect for my
negotiating. Captain Asshole, the taxman, nodded.
I continued, letting
a slight grin of superiority escape. “But you have something I want, and if I
am to pay with this,” I fingered my gold nugget necklace, and his eyes widened,
“I want a full measure of compensation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he
said. His threw his shoulders back and straightened his spine. His whole
attitude had changed with the promise of the nugget necklace without a fight.
He was now respectful and at full attention. He was looking at my upper body
again, but not even glancing at my bosom—his eyes were fixed on the gold.
“So, I’ll take that
wagon, all of its contents, and your horse. You can have the necklace, but I
want your word as an officer and a subject of the Crown that you will never tax
or bother this property, or its residents, ever again…or suggest to or order
anyone else to do the same.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he
said, his tongue literally licking his lips in anticipation of getting the
gold, his eyes still fixed on the necklace.
“Oh, and one other
thing I’ll be wanting. You can consider this compensation for the harassment
and duress you have inflicted on members of this household.”
His face froze—the
transaction wasn’t going as smoothly as he had hoped.
“I want those spurs,”
I said. “You can ride the wagon horse back to whatever privy-hole you came out
of, but you have to do it without spurs. Deal?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said
and stuck out his hand.
I didn’t know if the
hand was to seal the transaction or to claim the necklace, but I didn’t want to
touch it either way. “Wallace,” I said as I looked over to the doorway. My
betrothed walked up to me and waited while I took the necklace off my neck with
a jerk. It was a tricky clasp, and I hoped I had broken it. I put it in
Wallace’s hand and looked toward the captain.
Wallace held the
necklace in his left hand and stuck out his right. The captain was gazing at
the gold, and then realized that Wallace was waiting for him to shake his hand.
Wallace took the hand offered him and squeezed hard, barely shaking it at all,
until the man winced and squeaked from the pain. He let Asshole’s hand go at
the squeal, then dropped the necklace into the waiting, throbbing palm.
Skinny and Baldy were
standing by, fidgeting, not knowing what to do. The captain saw Wallace walking
over to the wagon and extended a bit of unexpected courtesy. “Curly, help him
with the gear. I’m riding the bay out. I got the tax payment. We’ll be leaving
the wagon here. We can make good time getting back to New Bern now,” he said
with a voice of authority.
The bald
man—ironically, he must be Curly—walked up to the horse and started removing
the harness and reins, throwing them onto the wagon seat. He grabbed a little
bag from the back, and was going to take it with him, when I hollered, “The
wagon, and all that’s in it, stays here. All you get is the horse,” I said.
I was taking a
liberty here. It was probably just their rations, but I didn’t care. I made a
point of catching the captain’s eye, and then looked to the barn, a subtle
reminder that my marksman was still watching them.
The Taxman saw my
gesture and ordered his men, “Leave it there.” I think he started to say, ‘Do
as she says,’ but bit off the words, his pride stopping him. He looked over to
me and asked, “I do get my saddle, don’t I?”
“Sure,” I said, and
turned to sit down on the porch bench. I was getting weak all over now, and
wanted to conserve enough energy to at least keep my voice strong.
“Put my saddle on the
bay,” he told the third man. I noticed he had a limp, but still managed to get
the job done.
It took a long five
minutes, but they were finally ready to leave. “Good day, ma’am,” the captain
said as he sat tall on the swaybacked wagon horse.
“Not so fast,” I
said, “You’re forgetting something.” I looked down at his boot.
“Pardon me,” he said
sarcastically, and bent down to remove one, then the other, of his spurs.
“You’ll need these,” he said as he waved the shiny metal and leather devices.
“The horse may look fine,” he grinned like he knew how the deck of cards was
marked, “but she won’t break a run; she won’t get past a trot.” He tossed the
spurs to the ground in front of me and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here,
boys,” and was gone with a gallop, his three stooges obediently following
behind him.
Wallace reached down
to get the spurs. “It was just gold,” I said, “and it never had any sentimental
value for me. I don’t even know where it came from.”
“You know I don’t
care about material goods—were you harmed? I couldn’t tell what was going on
from the barn,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if it
was embarrassment or an apology, but he definitely felt inadequate about not
protecting me.
“Not a scratch on me
or the babies, but Wee Ian,” I asked my little protector, “are you okay?”
The young man was
standing in the doorway, watching the bandits as they disappeared into a trail
of dust. “Aye, I’m fine, but why do ye call me Wee Ian?”
“Well, because you
look like your father and his name is Ian. Actually, when he was young, he was
called Wee Ian because his father’s name was Ian, too.”
All of a sudden, I
remembered that Ian was in the barn or in the woods or somewhere where he had a
good shot at the house and its enemies. I looked up and saw that Wallace was
already walking toward the barn. I patted the boy’s hand, put it down, and
followed after Wallace. Wee Ian ran after me, reached out, and retook my hand,
escorting me as if the two of us walked hand in hand every day.
Wee Ian and I caught
up, the three of us undoubtedly a very intimidating triad. Wallace called out
coolly, “Cousin, you can come out now.”
Ian jumped down from
the rafter of the barn, but neither Wallace nor I got a chance to speak. Wee
Ian strutted up to him purposefully and stopped three feet in front of him, his
hand on the dirk in its sheath. Wallace and I looked at each other, then back
to the confrontation.
“She says yer my
father; is that right?” the young man demanded. After what he had just been
through, it was easier to think of him as a young man rather than as a
prepubescent boy who was not much more than four feet tall.
Ian closed his eyes
and brought his hand up in front of his brow. He squeezed his forehead with
long, knobby fingers, thinking about his answer. He dropped his hand to his
chin and brought his forehead down in a gesture of shame. His hand remained at
his chin momentarily. He sighed, lifted his head, and then dropped his hand to
his side—limp—no fight or resistance left in the sentinel.
“Aye, I suppose I am yer father,” he said. “At
least that’s what yer grandmother said, and I was marrit to yer mother
when…weel, I dinna ken ye were even born until three moons ago!”
“When were ye gonna
tell me?” the boy demanded, his fists on his hips, making Ian look the child
who had just been caught shaving the cat.
Wallace walked up to
Wee Ian and put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s a funny thing about this
family. Some of the men are a bit slow to admit that they’re a father. It
happened to me, too. But, at least we did find out. I’m sure it’s just that Ian
didn’t want you to care less about your other father. You mother, uh,
remarried, right?”
Wee Ian had been
glaring at Ian during Wallace’s little chat, but let his shoulders slump at the
last remark. “Aye, she did, and I have two wee sisters. They’re with her now.
But my other father, their father, is deid. That’s why I went with Star
Walker.” Wee Ian stopped and squinted at Ian. “So, what am I supposed to call
ye now?” he asked.
Ian chewed on his
lower lip a couple of times, then said, “Ye can call me Da, if ye like. I mean,
I’d like it if ye did.”
I could see Ian’s
eyes getting moist, as if he wanted to cry. All of a sudden, I had bucket loads
of compassion for him. His father was probably dead, and now he was waiting to
find out if this ‘surprise’ son—the boy he had known of for only three
months—could, or would, acknowledge him. And I had named this bright and brave
young man Wee Ian after him.
Wee Ian thought about
it for a moment. “Okay—Da,” he said in a stilted manner, as if this was the
first time the name had crossed his lips. He looked up from Wallace to me, and
then said to his father, “I think they want to talk to ye, too.”
Wallace nodded at the boy, and then fixed his
eyes on Ian. He said, “Thank you,” and turned away to escort me back to the
house.
And
that was that.
Apparently,
Wallace felt that he didn’t need to say anything else.
We
were half way to the house when we heard Ian yell after us. “The bairns: there
were two of ‘em. Did ye have twins?”
Wallace stopped. He
looked at me, his back still turned away from the man who he had only recently
found out was his cousin. “I can’t do this to him,” he told me. He took a deep
breath and turned halfway around.
“No, we did not have
twins,” he said.
I could hear the
smile in his tone and was concerned. Was he being cruel? I looked at him and
saw that he was not being mean, but was teasing.
“But there were two!
Do they belong to someone else? Evie, I saw ye feedin’ ‘em…”
Ian, the tough
mountain man who had lived for years as an Indian, was distraught—his voice
squeaking with his plea, anxious to find out about the babies.
I was still mad at
him for leaving me, but I would get over it. I had Wallace and was happy,
happier, the happiest that I could ever be because of him. There really wasn’t
a reason to punish Ian for the rest of his life, or for even the next five
minutes.
I grinned at him and
shook my head. “Oh, you saw two of them, all right, but they’re not twins, not
really. You saw two of them, but there’s one more. Wallace and I had triplets!
Come on in and see.”
I grabbed Wee Ian
with one hand and kept hold of Wallace with the other. Ian ran to catch up with
us, but stayed six feet away, off to the side of us. I guessed any closer than
that would have made him uncomfortable.
The babies were still
asleep in the clutter of quilts. They hadn’t suffered through the day’s ordeal,
and I was grateful for that. Actually, the only wounded one, besides Wee Ian’s
possible bruising from being tossed across the room, was Captain Asshole. And
nobody cared about him.
Ian stayed outside,
just beyond the porch steps. I remembered how it felt to have a roof over my
head after being in the open for so long. He probably didn’t have
claustrophobia, but I didn’t want him to feel uneasy either. I picked up
Leonardo and brought him out to the porch.
“Here’s Leonardo, he
was the first one born,” I said.
Ian took slow
deliberate steps up to the bench and sat down. He held his breath as I handed
him the bundle of sleeping baby boy. “He’s got red hair!” he exclaimed in a
soft whisper.
“They all do,” I
replied, “just like their Grandpa Jody.”
His eyebrows crowded
together in a frown as he realized that I hadn’t said great-uncle Jody. Then he
looked up at Wallace. Wallace cocked his head and shrugged his shoulder as in,
‘Yeah, I found out your Uncle Jody is my father,’ and then brought Judah to him
for inspection.
Ian now had a baby
tucked into the crook of each elbow. He looked from one to the other. “These
two look jest alike! How do ye tell them apart?”
Wallace pointed to
the cowlicks on their foreheads, mirrored images of each other, and said,
“They’ll be a handful, but I think they’re worth it.”
I came up with the
last swaddled infant. “It’s easy to tell this one apart from the others,” I
said as I pulled back the clout, “She’s a girl. Our little bonus baby was a big
surprise. I thought I was finished, and then boom! There she was.”
Ian handed off the
boys to Wallace, and I gave him Danielle. “Weel, thank ye fer lettin’ me see
‘em. I woulda understood if ye dinna ever want to see me again, here or
anywhere else.” Ian’s head was bowed down, his long finger stroking Danielle’s
fine pink hair, ashamed of his previous actions, but fascinated with the baby
girl, the first living daughter he had ever seen.
Wallace said to his
cousin, “Thank you for them,” he nodded to each of the babies, “and for Evie.
She and I will be married in front of a preacher next month. I just thought you
should hear it from me.” Wallace said it sincerely, without a trace of malice,
and by the blinking of Ian’s eyes as he looked at him, he could tell.
“Aye, thank ye fer
tellin’ me. I wish ye both well,” Ian said sincerely, almost embarrassed at his
admission. He swallowed, closed his eyes in deep thought, then opened them
again, looking at Wallace as if to ask a favor. “So does this mean I can come
see ‘em every once in a while, since they’re my cousin’s children?” he asked.
Wallace looked at me
to see if I had any objection to having Ian back in my life, even if only on a
very limited basis. I shrugged my shoulders. It was okay with me. Now that I
had seen Ian in the flesh, my flesh was neither craving him nor hating him.
That was a relief, and a reaction I hadn’t expected.
“There’s one more
thing,” Wallace said, “If it’s all right with you, Evie. We were talking of
middle names earlier today. Wow, it was only today, wasn’t it? Anyway, if it’s
all right with you,” he nodded to me, “could we use Kincaid as a middle name
for the boys? I mean, he was their protector, and the protector of their
parents, too.”
“Sounds like a good
idea to me, a very good way to say thank you forever. As long as it isn’t
Danielle’s middle name,” I said, giving Wallace an exaggerated scowl wrapped
around a grin.
“How about Wren?”
asked Wee Ian. “She has a pretty cry, like a wren, not a crow.”
Wallace and I looked
at each other. “Well, it’s better than Magpie,” he said. “Okay, then her name’s
Danielle Wren Urquhart, unless we find another name to throw in with those
three.”
I looked over at Ian
and smiled. “Oh, and since we’re saying our thank you’s—thank you for being the
sperm donor, Ian.”
“Sperm donor? What’s
a sperm donor?” asked Wee Ian.
Wallace and I couldn’t
help but laugh. “Welcome to fatherhood, Ian. You get to explain that one to
him, not me,” said Wallace.
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