Drew flailed his legs. Bucked his hips. And with supreme effort, rolled to the left, reversing positions with the Indian while plunging his enemy into the spreading fire.
The viselike grip around his neck loosened only slightly, and Drew sucked in a trickle of air while driving his knee into the Indian’s chest and yanking against the warrior’s wrists. The acrid smell of singed flesh teased his impoverished lungs. The sizzling of human skin resounded in his ears.
The Powhatan acknowledged none of it. Drew sucked in another paltry breath. He couldn’t begin to imagine the torment the Indian must be undergoing. Even Drew’s own body smoldered from the searing heat.
The warrior held firm to Drew’s neck, though, glaring at him and squeezing, tighter, tighter. Apprehension twisted within him. What manner of man was this? Let go, you fiend!
The Indian dug his nails into Drew’s neck, then shoved him back and off. They broke apart, bounding to their feet, channeling their focus onto each other instead of the torturous pain racking their bodies.
Drew circled to the left. The Powhatan mirrored his moves, a slow, satisfied smile creeping onto his face. If it came down to a bare-handed struggle, Drew would die. And they both knew it.
Drew’s gaze swept the area where the pry bar had fallen, then quickly returned to track the Powhatan. The pry bar would be of no use. It now lay in the midst of the spreading fire, flames engulfing it. That sweeping gaze had also caught a trail of flames tickling the base of the cottage. He must kill the Indian before the fire reached the thatch roof or all would be lost.
The Powhatan lunged, making a swipe at him. Drew jumped back and free. He glanced at the ax buried in the tree stump. The Indian saw it as well. The Indian was closer--just barely.
They both broke and ran for it, but Drew detoured, snatching up the new hickory handle he’d been whittling, which was still a good six feet long and stood propped against the mulberry tree.
The Powhatan whirled to face Drew with the ax. Drew rested on the balls of his feet, bending his knees and facing the Indian with a hickory handle turned quarterstaff. The Indian smiled, swirling the ax above his head and tossing it from hand to hand.
Drew cocked a brow, spinning the quarterstaff within his grasp. An earsplitting shriek pierced the air as the Indian rushed Drew with an overhead swing of the ax.
Drew swept his quarterstaff up with both hands, blocking the half-moon slash toward his head. The moment the ax handle connected with his dense pole, he jerked the staff backwards, whipping the ax out of the warrior’s hands to fly harmlessly behind his own back.
In less than a heartbeat, Drew snapped his right hand forward, slamming the right butt of the staff into the Powhatan’s left temple, stunning him. Capitalizing on his advantage, Drew dropped to his left knee, sweeping the quarterstaff behind the warrior’s knees, knocking him off his feet and hard onto his raw back.
He heard the Powhatan’s breath rush from his body and followed up with a sharp jab, thrusting the end of his staff into the Indian’s throat, crushing his voice box.
Drew jumped back. The Indian’s eyes bugged and he clawed frantically at his throat, rolling onto hands and knees while he choked. Drew dropped his weapon and grabbed the warrior by his hair, jerking him to his knees. The Indian grasped Drew’s arms, but the pressure behind his grip faded even as he made contact.
With the same detached passion he used to destroy wild game, Drew placed the Indian in a headlock and snapped his neck, dropping the Powhatan’s lifeless body onto his face in the settling dirt.
He knew he’d wrestle with it later, but there was no time at present to think of what he’d just done. Flames now licked two sides of the cottage. He had to get in there. Now.
He didn’t allow himself to hesitate. But he knew. Before the end of his struggle with the Indian, he knew. Knew what he would find once he set foot inside that cottage. For if anyone had still been alive, they would have come outside to assist him in destroying the enemy. But maybe, just maybe in the Indian’s rush to move on to his next prey, he had merely knocked them unconscious.
Drawing the neck of his shirt up over his mouth and nose, he plunged into the cottage. Scorching heat and dense smoke blasted him in the face. He dropped to his knees. A layer of murky but navigable air hovered about three feet deep over the cottage floor.
He found Mary and Sally immediately. Both lay prone on the dirt floor. Both were dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Drew watched himself as if from afar as he placed Sally atop Mary, then gathered them both in his arms and staggered back out of the cottage in a crouched position. The anguish, the grief, the misery had to be moved someplace else. There was no time for it now. He needed to find Connie.
Settling the girls well beyond both the cottage and the Indian, he whipped out his handkerchief, tying it about his face as he pitched himself back into his beloved home, now filled with billowing clouds of black, uncompromising smoke.
Narrowed into slits, his eyes burned, while his throat, raw and chapped, sucked in air. She wasn’t on the floor or he’d have seen her when he first came in and found the others. Dropping to his hands and knees, he scrambled toward the bed.
The thickened smoke and shortage of air made his head spin. Was he still moving in the right direction or was he going in circles? He couldn’t see a blessed thing. He cracked his temple against the bed frame, blinding himself for a moment. At least he’d found the bed.
Rising up on his knees to check the mattress, thick, heavy smoke strangled him. He ran his arms along the tick. Nothing. He sunk again to the floor. Where was she? The board. Maybe she lay on the board.
The roof had caught now and bits of fire rained from above. Whipping the tick off the ropes, he covered his back with it as he slithered on his belly, so impermeable was the smoke. His lungs ceased to function. He was losing awareness. He had to find Connie.
Then he heard it. A soft, mourning, heart-wrenching wail from far, far away. Had he imagined it? No, there it was again and she was calling him. Calling his name.
Hold tight, Connie! I’m coming! I’m coming! Keeping his face close to the dirt, he pulled his knees up beneath him and moved toward the sound. The roaring of the fire blistered his ears, but her high-pitched plea cut through it all. He shuffled toward it, praying desperately as he went.
Her throat was dry, her eyes parched from crying when she finally pushed herself to her knees and wiped her face with her apron. Thick, moist clouds had moved in front of the sun, threatening rain.
What held her attention, though, was Blackberry. The striped animal stood a stone’s throw away, facing her, his body tensed, his ears flattened, his tail erect. The hairs on Constance’s nape tingled.
Blackberry drummed his front paws on the ground with an astonishingly loud thump...thump, thump. He repeated the long, short, short rhythm two more times.
After a taut moment, he lowered his tail, then turned toward the forest. Constance scanned the thicket as well but could see nothing. The forest lay eerily quiet. Blackberry sniffed several times, his nose prodding the air around him, before finally dismissing whatever had concerned him and ambling toward her.
She ran a hand over his downy coat and long, fluffy tail. “What’s the matter, young fellow?”
She perused the forest again but could see nothing amiss. Blackberry climbed up her torso with his front paws, nudging her chin with his cold nose. She sniffled and lay back down, the animal flopping over onto his back as she did so.
She massaged Blackberry’s tight tummy and forced herself to confront the weighty slab of desolation inside her. She might not have a congruous marriage anymore. Her interest in scientific pursuits might have lost its allure, but she had a God. And He’d given her a baby. Drew’s baby. And for that reason, she must prepare herself for the long journey back to England. She cuddled the black and white animal, fresh tears filling her eyes. “Oh, Blackberry. I don’t want to go.”
Pearls from her time here strun
g together in her mind. The graceful deer poised outside the clearing on her wedding day. The smell of Drew’s pipe when they washed dishes at the creek. Surprised delight after submerging herself in a tub of deliciously warm water. Learning to milk Snowflake. Taming Mr. Meanie. Berry-picking with Sally.
Sally. Regret, spiced with sadness, sprinkled through her. Oh, but she was going to miss the little moppet. Her actions toward that sweet, precious child this afternoon had been inexcusable. She must apologize to her, with not only words, but with a great display of affection.
Blackberry rolled onto his feet, burrowed closer, then turned in circles until finally settling in the crook between Constance’s stomach and legs.
“And you. I’m going to miss you too.” She scratched behind his ears. He tucked his head underneath and wrapped his tail around himself.
I’ve been a fool, Lord. A fool. I’ve placed myself, my marriage, and my mathematics above you. I’ve made them my gods, and as you can see, I’ve made a huge muck of things.
She ran her hand down Blackberry’s coat. Still, you’ve blessed me. You knit a babe together with your own hands and placed it to nest inside of me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Because I know you will tolerate no other gods before you, I give you my marriage, my mathematics, myself, and this sweet, precious babe inside of me.
Her eyes drifted closed.
How long she slept, Constance was unsure, but when she awoke, Blackberry was gone and something was...burning?
Frowning, she sat up, wincing at the stiffness of her limbs. What was burning?
Then she saw it. Black, ominous smoke curling in great gusts toward the heavens.
“Fire!” she screamed, scrambling to stand up. A biting pain tormented the soles of her feet. She ignored it as thoughts of a fire took hold.
Hiking up her skirt, she ran pell-mell for the cottage. Her foot caught on a root and she sprawled to the ground, the impact knocking her senseless. Shaking her head clear, she hoisted herself up, barely giving her body a chance to fully rise before her feet dug into the ground again as she ran and ran and ran.
Blood drained from her head. Her mind swam. No! I will not swoon! I cannot swoon! Sally! Mary! Oh, sweet Lord! I cannot swoon! Nausea churned in her stomach. Breathing became an exercise in futility. The smell of fire spurred her on.
The crackling and roaring of flames reached her ears, the cottage’s demise, her eyes. Oh, Lord!
She saw the Indian first, then Sally slumped atop Mary. A wrenching pressure ripped throughout her body, starting deep in the pit of her being. It spiraled up into her chest, suffocating her. Her knees buckled. “No!” she screamed. “Noooooooo!”
Falling to the ground, she tried to crawl to them but got tangled in her skirt. She wrested it from beneath her knees, finally reaching the woman and child. “Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no,” she sobbed.
Scooping Sally into her arms, she drew the limp body to her own, rocking it, patting it, murmuring to it. “Wake up, Sally, wake up. Don’t go. Please, pumpkin, don’t go!”
Sally’s head toppled like a rag doll from one side to the other as Constance rocked. She burrowed her fingers into the child’s hair, bracing her little head and feeling a huge sticky lump at the base of it.
Nausea rushed up Constance’s throat and she bit her tongue to keep it at bay. She couldn’t succumb to it yet. She had to wake up Sally first. She had to apologize to the dear little thing.
She reached out and grabbed Mary’s arm. “Mary, Mary. Fetch me a cool cloth. I can’t get Sally to wake up.” But Mary only lay there.
Constance shook her. “Mary!” She’d injected her most severe tone, one she’d used back home when dealing with recalcitrant servants but had never before used on Mary. “Get up, I say. I need help. I hurt Sally’s feelings and I need to tell her that I’m s-sorry. That I d-didn’t mean it. That I l-l-love her!”
But Mary would not get up and Sally would not wake. Constance squeezed her own eyes shut, then squeezed Sally to her heart. “Drew!” she screamed. “Drew! Sally w-won’t w-wake uuuuuuup! Dreeeeeew!”
How many times she screamed his name, she didn’t know, but suddenly he was there, wrapping his arms around her, Sally trapped between them. He ran his hands up and down Constance’s back, neck, and hair, kissing her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth with quick, frantic pecks.
The stifling smell of charred wood engulfed his shirt, smothering her. She pushed at him. “Stop it! I can breathe not! You’re going to hurt Sally!”
But he didn’t stop and anger twisted inside her. She released Sally long enough to shove him away. But when he fell back, so did Sally, her body contorting in an unnatural way.
“Now look what you did!” She gathered Sally to her again, this time cradling her like an infant. “I’m trying to wake her up, not squash her to death.” She looked up at Drew through tear-streaked eyes. “She won’t wake up!”
Tears were pouring from Drew’s eyes as well, and he looked like death itself. Dried blood lay in streaks down the left side of his head and matted his long hair. His face was plastered with black soot. Blue and purple imprints crisscrossed his neck. “What happened t-to you?”
He licked his parched lips, then moved them, but no sound came out. He tried again but only croaked. Impatience flickered in his eyes, and he jerked his head toward the cottage.
Constance looked at it dispassionately as flames consumed all four sides and the roof. She became vaguely aware of an immense heat pressing against her body. “It’s on fire,” she stated.
His expression changed. He stood, plucking her to her feet. Holding fast to Sally, Constance crumbled back to the ground. “Stop it, Drew. I need to stay with Sally.”
His hands bit into her arms and he hauled her to her feet again, his mouth working, guttural sounds emitting from it. He pointed to the cottage, to Sally, and then to the forest.
“You want me to take Sally away from the fire?” she asked.
He nodded and pointed to the path.
“Take her to the creek?”
He nodded again and spun her toward the path, giving her a push. She started to fall, but he grabbed hold of her skirt, propping her up again. When he let loose, her feet wavered but she stayed upright. She turned back to him once more and said, “Please tell Mary to come too.”
He leaned down and swung Mary into his arms.
He knew not what to do first. Tend to the burning cottage or to Connie. He decided on Connie, for by himself there was not much he could do about the spreading of the fire, and Connie was in no shape to fend for herself.
He would get her to the creek and follow it to the James River and on to the ocean. For if the forest were to catch fire, he wanted to be far, far away.
He hoisted Mary to his shoulder and trotted to catch up with Connie. She was still talking to Sally. Talking about showing her some friendly blackberries. Sweet Lord, he hoped she wouldn’t catch the mind sickness.
He remembered some who’d lost everything in ’22 and how mind sickness took over their bodies. And this surprise attack was exactly like the other one. The last had killed near four hundred. He wondered how many this one would claim.
His thoughts gravitated to Josh. Had he reached Grandma and Nellie in time? What about his new baby nephew? Would he be orphaned...or worse? He blacked the thoughts out, refusing to consider the possibility of losing them too. As far as Sally and Mary went, he would not, could not, dwell on it now.
Connie was alive and he had to keep her that way. To think of anything else would undermine his ability to do so. He tuned out her sentimental blabbering and started planning for what he would do if they encountered more Indians. And what he would do if the wind picked up and the fire spread so rapidly they became cut off from an escape route.
His throat ached, his lungs burned, his heart remained resolutely numb. Connie’s progress was slowing with each step, her hold on Sally more and more precarious. When she snagged a toe and lurched to the ground,
she refused to release Sally. Both fell with a thud.
Quickly lowering Mary, Drew dropped to his knees. Connie lay face down in the dirt, her shoulders shaking.
“Get up, Connie.” His throat barely croaked out the words. “We need to keep moving.” He placed a hand on her arm. “Come.”
She reacted like a wild animal, jerking herself up with teeth snarling and claws barred. “Touch me not! Just leave me be! I see not what the hurry is anyway. In case you haven’t noticed, Drew, she’s dead. Did you hear what I said? Sally’s dead! They’re both dead! Don’t you even care?”
Tears spilled down her cheeks and he watched her crawl to Sally’s side, straightening the child’s dress into neat folds.
A raw and primitive anguish seeped into his soul. He had tried to tell her. One should never, ever allow himself to get too close to the children. The odds were too high against you.
But Connie had scoffed at such advice and now look at her. So torn up with grief she didn’t even recognize the peril her own life was in this very moment.
This was why she must go back. This was why she couldn’t stay. He would not have her go through this again with her own children. And she would. As sure as the sun, she would.
And it would rip her sweet, tender heart from side to side, top to bottom, corner to corner. He knew it for a fact, for his at this very moment lay in tatters. Again, curse it all. Again.
“Drew,” Connie screamed, grasping Sally’s face and rapidly patting her cheek. “Oh, sweet saints above! Did you hear that?” She snapped her head up to look at him. “Did you? I think she moaned!”
But, of course, she hadn’t. Connie was delusional. Still, it would be more expedient to recheck Sally than to try to convince Connie otherwise.
He dropped beside them and held Sally’s wrist with one hand while placing his other hand against the lifeline located in her neck.
Connie stilled, waiting for his reaction. Sitting back on his heels, he slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, love. I feel no heartbeat. Now, we really needs go. The wind is blowing this way and we need to keep moving.”