South Carolina
November 1784
The wintry sky was cold and grey, but thankfully dry as five travelers followed the narrow dirt path soldiers used to go from Columbia, the westernmost fringe of Carolinan civilization, to the wilds along the Cherokee border.
Here the trees, mostly oak, poplar and elm, stood barren, its leaves forsaken clumps of brown littering the forest floor causing the ground to rattle with every breeze, and crackle with every footstep.
Tom led the weary band astride his wannabe destrier, 'Death.' He stared straight ahead, ignoring his companions, intent only on the future and his rematch with Black in Charleston. Their first meet had been a rout, but now everything was different. Tom had a piece of the fallen angel's dark essence as well as that of Wasp Sting. Just as important, he now knew what he faced. If he couldn't surprise Black, then at least Black couldn't surprise him either.
Bast walked at the horse's side, her thoughts also her own. If she had given voice to the lingering doubts in her mind, it would have been equally split between Heyward and the future. She could only guess how much it cost Tom to quell his darker impulses, but in so doing he may have silenced part of what made him human as well. She found him far too distant most of the time, and far too petulant the rest of it. As for the future...she couldn't read it any more than the next person; far too many possibilities surrounding her 'brother.' Still, she sensed disaster and death. For whom?
John came next, wrapped in a dirty saddle blanket. He'd given his coat to Cassie and the baby. He trudged along, head lowered against the occasional gust of wind. Tom found them food to eat as they traveled, but still his stomach argued despite the chill. At first he warmed himself with thoughts of gutting Exeter like a wild boar and watching his lifeblood throb out as he writhed and screamed, but the many miles dulled his emotion and left him ready to find a burrow and sleep.
Cassie brought up the rear, John's heavy coat about her shoulders, Christina bound in a sling across her chest and invisible amidst the thick, grey cloth. She, alone, voiced her opinions the night before: Assent that their bid to stay in Greenville through the winter would probably fail and that Chris needed to be in civilization, uncertainly about working with General Heyward, who at best seemed 'touched,' and terror about returning to Charleston. She knew this day would come, but not so God damn soon. While a strong part of her shared John's desire for slow and lasting revenge, every time she thought of Exeter she could hear his animal growls and her own shrieks, feel his viselike grip on her body and the overwhelming pain, worse than a beating, worse even than labor.
A cough and sniffle roused John from his fog. He turned to see Cassie wiping her nose, then hugging her arms around their bundled daughter.
"Tom!"
Heyward blinked and turned in his saddle. "What?"
"How about letting Cassie ride for awhile? She's exhausted."
She looked up, cheeks flushed, her breath leaving with faint white wisps. "I'm fine, Johnny."
"Don't be foolish, ma'am!."
Sparks flared in her eyes. "Who are you calling...?" She closed her eyes. "Johnny, I'm alright." Tom had already dismounted however and stood, stiff and immobile, with the reins.
Cassie handed John their child and walked to the horse. Death didn't seem impressed. His dark eyes flashed as she reached for the saddle's pommel and he sidestepped into her, nearly forcing her to the ground.
"Cass!"
Tom yanked down on the reins, hard, forcing Death to meet his gaze. The horse wasn't impressed. He was hungry, not in the mood for uncertain riders, and snapped at Heyward's arm.
Cassandra Preston wasn't an inexperienced rider. She'd grown up working in a tavern for her father and so worked with horses, though none so tall. Further, her husband was a cavalry officer and they spent happier days riding in the fields near town. Cassie mounted. Death snorted and reared, and she barely grabbed the reins in time to avoid a painful fall.
Heyward folded his arms while John watched in agonized silence, not wanting to excite or scare either by crying out, as horse and rider battled for dominion. Death wasn't used to light riders and so capered, trying to throw her. Cassie kept her hands low, pulling hard first on one side and the other, forcing the horse into tight turns where he couldn't use his strength and stride to advantage.
"Impressive," Tom said once Death bowed to reluctant servitude and stood, quivering and nostrils flaring. "Very impressive."
John smiled as, for the first time in weeks, he saw triumph flicker in his wife's eyes. "She's amazing." He walked over and offered the baby.
Cassie shook her head. "Keep her, Johnny. I need both my hands, and I don't want to worry about her if I fall."
"If you fall, I'll shoot him," Preston retorted, glaring at Death. The horse seemed to sense the threat, for he turned his great head and contorted his mouth into a credible, toothy snarl.
"Don't be foolish, sir," she teased.
"I would have to resent that," Tom noted. He still hadn't moved, surveying the pair with folded arms.
You? Resent something? That would never happen!
He turned and glared at the orange tabby apparently sleeping on the path.
*******
Cassie usually rode after this, with the two men flanking her and Bast disappearing for hours at a time only to reappear when it was time to build a fire and find something to eat. Mercifully little wind made it through the flimsy forested cover, and though the night time temperatures could be brutal, occasionally the afternoons broke freezing.
In late afternoon of the fourth day the sky turned a darker shade of grey promising rain if not snow. The clouds descended as well, washing the world in a faded grey as if some dark entity leached all the color out of the universe.
"Dismount!"
Cassie jerked at Tom's sharp command. John hissed. "If you want a turn, you just have to ask. There's no need to..." He paused, for Heyward wasn't paying attention. He whipped his head back and forth, narrowing his eyes to pierce the gloom. "What's amiss?"
"Listen."
Death snorted softly as Cass dismounted. John lifted his head, trying to hear over everyone's breath and the sudden pounding of his own heart. Rhythmic pounding, a triple-beat: thump-thump-thump. thump-thump-thump. thump-thump...
"Riders!" Tom leapt into the saddle. The horse didn't appreciate this and wheeled, then lifted his head as well, ears flaring back. He, too, knew what was amiss.
"Over there," John said. Some distance ahead and to the north he saw three shapes steadily picking their way through the forest. Perhaps one saw them, for they heard a shout and the shapes converged.
Tom turned to face them. "Hide."
"Like hell!"
"Not you. Her." He regarded Cassie. "Take a pistol. If a fight starts, open fire."
"I understand." She took her daughter and one of the pistols, then faded into the trees behind them.
Heyward turned to John. "Carolina Guard?"
Preston squinted, trying to make out the shapes. "If so, they won't be friendly. Especially if you're right about the governor...being alive, that is."
"Right." He looked around. "Have you any sign of the cat?"
"Bugger the cat. What's it going to do? Fight?"
Heyward grinned.
"Who goes there!?" challenged one of the riders.
"Travelers!" Tom roared. "Who is that?"
The nearest two cleared the mist and they could dimly make out the blue and white of American soldiers. "My name is Walsh," said the first, a tall youth who'd apparently outgrown his bulging uniform. "Third New York Cavalry. Who are you?" His eyes narrowed at Tom's battered, but still distinctive army uniform.
"You're a long way from home," Heyward said instead. "You're in South Carolina."
"I know where I am, sir," Walsh snapped. "I've asked your name." He snaked his hand surreptitiously towards the pistol at his belt.
John didn't bother with subterfuge. He drew his gun. Walsh's companion drew his.
Looking over his shoulder, Tom saw the others closing rapidly on their position. He raised his hands and lowered them in a simple 'stand down' gesture. "Very well. My name is Heyward. This is Colonel Preston."
"Not any more," Preston muttered.
"Major General Thomas Heyward?" For a moment Walsh paled. "Sir, we have sought you since Philadelphia."
"All this distance for one man?" Tom asked mildly. Two more soldiers appeared through the midst and saw drawn weapons.
One nudged his horse forward, hand on his sword. "What goes here?" Walsh told him and he nodded. "James Kettering, Cornet, Third New York," he said, crossing his hands over his pommel. "Sir, I must ask you to come with us."
"What business does four New Yorkers have in Carolina?" John demanded.
"They're looking for me."
"No, Tom. They're forward scouts. They couldn't have known you'd be here. Before they saw us they were spread pretty far apart, so they were probably sweeping in front of their regiment. It's common, especially when you don't want to be spotted. Isn't that right, Cornet?"
Kettering's face tightened. "You must come with us," he repeated.
"Or?"
Heyward looked down at John and shook his head slightly. Then, to Kettering: "Where are we going?"
"I will take you to Colonel Leyton. He can decide what to do with you."
