Journey to Victory Read online

  “I encouraged your guardian to set your price high enough to narrow the competition, but not high enough to end it. The price is your new clothing, two wool blankets, a musket, ten rounds of powder and ball, a jug of corn liquor, and one pound silver.”

  “That much?” she breathed in genuine surprise.

  “You are an extremely valuable young maiden. Most traders make do with squaws. The man who gets you is getting a treasure—a white woman who can survive on the frontier.”

  Was it true? Would she survive in this wilderness? When she’d left Paris, she’d had no idea of the hedge of protection, of privileged comfort she’d surrendered. She shook her head, willing away these doubts.

  He went on more briskly, “Shortly I will announce the price. Then any unmarried man who proves he can pay it will be allowed to take part in the drawing.”

  She looked up then, asking, “Why a drawing?” with her eyes.

  “I thought it would be the most equitable and quickest way to choose from among the qualifiers. If this does not suit, we may find another way.”

  She considered this before answering. “It is more than I hoped for. You have been so kind. Merci.” She curtseyed low in the noble style she’d been taught. But recalling who she was now and where she was, she lowered her eyes again.

  Unexpectedly, he stepped closer and lifted her chin, looking into her eyes. “Your way has been difficult, hasn’t it?”

  His deep tones brushed against her taut nerves. His touch launched a frisson of awareness through her. She returned his attention, suddenly not afraid of his eyes. She yearned for some part of whom she truly was to come through to him. I can’t even give you my right name.

  An inner voice urged her, “Tell him who you are. Tell him and your life, your career, your everything can be the way it was meant to be. Tell him.” Christiane held her breath, searching his face. Should she? What difference would it make? Then she recognized the urgent voice, it was grandmere’s.

  No. Who she had been wasn’t important. Maybe this wasn’t the way matters were supposed to be, but they were the ways things were. His hand moved against her cheek. A gentle, respectful touch.

  This officer had applauded her bravery, so she must give him a courageous reply. She pressed her hand over his. “This new world demands much, but I survive.”

  He grimaced, his face solemn. “I am still learning that lesson myself.” There was another pause. Again, grandmere’s voice urged her to reveal herself to this man. Christiane ignored it. I can’t tell him. I don’t want him to know I’m not some peasant’s daughter, that I’ve been reared to appear before royalty. It would crush me.

  Then he slipped his hand from her face and his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I still say that any woman who would welcome this arrangement is unique. Are you certain?”

  She still felt his phantom touch upon her cheek. “Capitaine, this is not a situation I would have sought. But you look at it as a man would. If I were still in France, any marriage would have been arranged, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose you are right.” He pinned her with his gaze. “Sometimes life, even for a man, leaves no way out.” He looked as though he wanted to say more that was personal, but this breach of decorum passed. He looked away. “Pere Paul Albert will perform the wedding immediately after the drawing. Shall we go?”

  Offering her his arm, he escorted her formally to the green in the midst of the small fort. Shaw-nee-awk-kee and his son waited for her by a camp table in the center. Shaw-nee-awk-kee looked gratified at the air of suppressed excitement around the common. He gave Christiane a courteous nod.

  She nodded in return.

  All around men lounged, trying to appear nonchalant. From under her eyelashes, she noticed, however, all appeared freshly groomed. Again, she found herself the object of intense scrutiny. Today, though she felt it to be complimentary and her confidence rose. She was offered the only chair beside the camp table and she sat primly on display, her heart fluttering like a wounded moth.

  The captain cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I will begin the proceeding by naming the bride price. In order to qualify for a chance to marry this fair young lady”—he paused to motion toward Christiane—“you must pay today. No haggling permitted.” The Englishman sounded most official. “So here is the price.” The audience became alert. He recited the list and paused, as if giving them time to make mental computations and decisions. Then he spoke again. “All those men who feel they qualify, please come forward.”

  After a moment, one-by-one, eight men separated from the crowd and came forward. Instinctively, Christiane looked up, but then she forced her eyes down. It would be better not to make any preferment since she knew God, not she would decide. At length, the captain and the storekeeper were satisfied that all eight men met the financial requirement.

  “Now each of the qualifiers will have his name written on a piece of paper. The papers will be placed in a hat and the lady will draw out the name of her husband,” the captain continued.

  Suddenly, Christiane wished to participate, not merely observe this important event in her life. Also, though she had refused to let the Englishman know just how far she’d fallen, she wanted to offer the captain just a glimpse of her true station. She broke her silence. “If you wish, sir, I will write the names.”

  There was a rustle of surprise among the observers. Captain Eastham smiled and bowed in her direction. “Mademoiselle, if we had known that you could read and write we would have set the price far higher.” He motioned the sergeant to give her the paper and quill.

  Each man then stepped forward in turn and loudly gave his full name. Each tried to catch her eye, but in vain. Christiane kept her eyes on the quill and paper alone. She heard the excitement in the voice of each man. Her own tension grew with every name she wrote. The die that would predict the course of the rest of her life would be cast today, this hour. She whispered a prayer the nuns had taught her.

  Finally all the names were written, the paper torn, and the pieces placed into the captain’s tri-corn hat, which he held above her head. Trembling, she stood up. There was absolute silence as she reached up, stirred the names once, and selected one. Without looking at it, she handed it to the captain.

  He opened the slip and announced formally, “The lucky bridegroom is Jean Claude Belmond.” Only then did Christiane allow herself to lift her eyes.

  A broad-shouldered man, wearing a fringed buckskin jacket, stepped up and faced her. A huge smile creased his face. “C’est moi, Mademoiselle.” He was a head taller than she and had dark curly hair and warm brown eyes. She smiled timidly. Shaw-nee-awk-kee nodded to the Frenchman and then walked from the fort.

  Pere Paul Albert came forward immediately. “Daughter,” he asked in a grave tone, “do you consent to this match arranged in such an unusual way?”

  “I do,” she answered firmly, though her stomach jigged in an uneven rhythm.

  “My children,” the priest said augustly, “join hands.” When he lifted his crucifix above the couple, the surrounding men doffed their caps and folded their hands. The ceremony proceeded quickly. Christiane answered and repeated as the priest directed, all the while listening to and observing this stranger who was becoming hers till death. Then the priest was instructing Belmond to kiss his bride. She turned shyly toward him, lifting her face. He smiled down and slipped strong arms around her. Rising slightly on her toes, she answered his warm kiss, her very first. The sudden sound of the whole fort cheering its approval made her shudder sharply in her bridegroom’s arms.

  Over her husband’s shoulder, she glimpsed the English captain. His mournful expression snared her. Was he staring at her or was he looking inside himself? Had she made the right decision by choosing to keep her secrets?

  Chapter Two

  March 1776, Two years later

  Rumsveld Village, Western New York Colony

  At dusk, biting wind picked up and gray leaden clouds veiled the sky. This evening at the only inn in Rumsveld, Jakob Kruger watched Christiane, his only reason for coming out on this forbidding night. As she helped Old Sarah Rumsveld clear away what remained of the dried apple cornbread pudding they’d served in wooden bowls of thick cream for supper, he tried not to stare at the young woman and failed.

  The main room of the inn was small and dark, dominated by a large hearth, an oak trestle table, and a settle on one side of the fire. Dried fruit, Indian corn, and spices hung from the rafters under the roof. The heavy scent of apples and cinnamon hung in the air. But the essence of Christiane overpowered everything. Watching her had become his secret temptation.

  At his first sight of Christiane, Jakob had been snared like a trout on a hook. She’d arrived here at Rumsveld with her newborn son before the first snow last November, telling all that her husband had been killed by a bear farther north. She’d come south, trying to get closer to larger, safer settlements. She’d gotten as far as Rumsveld.

  And all winter, Jakob had watched the pretty young widow, in spite of himself. Now, she stood in front of the hearth and lit the wick of a betty lamp, a dried gourd filled with oil. As her neat rounded figure was backlit by the fire, a restlessness rustled through him. He glanced away, feeling guilty, as if peeping in at the window. He had no business being interested in any woman, especially such a young woman. And especially not now.

  Ashamed of his lack of control, he motioned to his friend, young Tom Mitchell, to come outside with him. Logs needed to be cut to fit the hearth. They’d paid for supper and ale by promising an armload each. Outside, Jakob hefted the ax, which had been sunk into a large old stump, and began chopping wood. Each time the blade bit, Jakob puffed out air, whitened by the lingering wintry chill. When he paused to wipe his brow with the back of his hand, he caught Christiane’s voice from inside.

  “What a pretty girl she is,” Tom said wistfully.

  “Ja, very pretty. Sweet, too. Make you a good wife.” With each stroke of the ax, each word stabbed Jakob.

  Tom colored. “I’m not looking for a wife yet.”

  “At your age I was already married to my wife and we come to America.” The words tasted sour on his tongue. Jakob didn’t want to feel jealousy. He finished with a log, lifted another into place, handed Tom the ax, and stepped aside. Tom was of the right age to marry the pretty widow.

  “Times are too uncertain.” The young man voiced the main reason Jakob should put away any thoughts of courting.

  Jakob watched the younger man chopping, feeling older by the minute. But I’m in my prime, only in my thirties. Yet he had a mission this year. One that would take him far away. “Come,” he said finally. “That is enough wood to pay.”

  Tom made one last swing and sank the blade deep into the chopping stump. Jakob piled logs high into his arms as did Tom. Together they headed through the rough-hewn entrance. They deposited their loads on the earthen floor inside the door. Immediately, his traitorous gaze sought Christiane out. Would the flickering wicks and the fire, giving only enough light to create shadows, hide the telltale sign of his interest in her?

  And evidently Tom had the same motive in coming here tonight—to watch Christiane. Jakob repressed the sting of irritation. This wasn’t a competition he should try to win. And how would his decision to leave be greeted here? Would he win her scorn or approval? He stiffened his resolve. He shouldn’t care what she thought. He’d made his decision and it would stand. Pretty widow or no.

  As she hurried away from the settle, Jakob caught Christiane blushing. She knows I cannot stop looking at her. I make myself a fool. Jakob stalked to the bench by the long table and sat down by his fifteen-year-old son Jon, who had just come in. Tom followed.

  In a moment Christiane approached the men with an earthenware jug. She hoped they hadn’t seen her blushing but how was she supposed to react when they kept staring at her? “I’ll pour your ale.” As she poured their pewter mugs full, she was suddenly very conscious of Jakob’s physical closeness. Heat from Jakob’s exertion radiated from him and he smelled of fresh clean sweat. This new sensitivity startled her.

  “Should I leave the jug?” she tried to sound as she always had before this new heightened awareness of Jakob. Both men nodded. She turned and walked away, but she sensed their gazes again following her. But only Jakob’s attention made her skin warm. Why? Why was she acting or reacting this way tonight? Was she finally healing from the loss of Jean Claude?

  Her memories of her first husband had faded. They’d only had a little over a year together. He’d been good to her, but if she hadn’t borne him a son, nothing of their time together would remain. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing away the memory of his last few blood-soaked moments of life.

  She opened her eyes to the present. Something had changed in her tonight. Was this awakening due to the end of mourning? Or could she dismiss it as merely the touch of spring that had come on the breeze this morning? Hearing Jean Claude waken, she went to the other room to get him.

  Christiane then sat down on the settle by the fire, shielded from view by Old Sarah, an angular woman, tall but stooped. Only the three bachelors, Jakob, his son, and Tom, sipped ale and lounged around the table.

  “Jakob, what did you hear over at Oriskany?” Sarah asked, starting in on the “Revolution” again.

  Christiane wondered why these frontiersmen, especially Jakob, bothered about the distant unrest. What did Washington and his ragtag army in Boston have to do with them?

  “Washington still waits outside Boston,” he answered. Jakob lived outside the village with his lanky son, who sat beside him. Jakob’s blonde hair and honest blue eyes were eye-catching. But, more importantly, Christiane had to admit that the discussions he initiated were lively and interesting. She settled back. Maybe tonight she’d actually listen to the details of this Revolution, try to understand it. Maybe it would override Jakob’s new sway over her.

  “I think Washington’ll be waiting there a long time,” Tom put in. Tom was about twenty years old, slender and tall, a local farmer who lived alone. “At least he will if he wants to stay alive.”

  Inwardly Christiane agreed with him. These farmers underestimated His Majesty’s Army. What the English took they kept. Her Irish father’s wasted life had proved that to her. But what would Jakob think if she told him that?

  “Maybe so,” Jakob said. His English was careful, but held a flavor of Allemande or , German. “I read a broadside posted in Oriskany. It says the English bring Hessians to fight for them in Boston.”

  “Can’t be true,” Sarah snapped. Deftly she filled the end of her long, clay pipe with Indian tobacco and tapped it down.

  Jakob drew himself up. “I myself speak to the man who brought the broadside and posted it. He saw Hessians with his own eyes.” He folded his arms.

  Christiane wondered why Hessians surprised anyone. Did this Jakob really believe that what he thought mattered to the world beyond?

  “I still can’t believe it,” Tom muttered. “Don’t sound right.”

  “Believe it. The English—they can’t even fight their own war,” Jakob said.

  Then Christiane became aware of more than about her reaction to what Jakob was saying than his words alone. Each phrase from his deep decisive voice was softening her toward him. She stiffened her defenses.

  “Takes a lot of”—Sarah spoke between pulls at her pipe—“English gall to hire foreigners…to fight their own people.”

  “Maybe it will make it easier for General Washington,” Jon offered.

  “No,” Jakob insisted. “Men from Hesse are good fighters.”

  “They don’t belong here,” Sarah repeated, stretching her large moccasined feet closer to the fire.

  A blast of wind rushed in through every crack in the log walls. Christiane pulled her shawl closer around herself. Once more she was grateful for these walls, thankful Old Sarah had taken her in. To keep her unruly gaze from straying to Jakob, she busied herself, laying her sleeping son in a borrowed cradle near the fire.

  “Hessians,” Tom complained. “But this Revolution…it ain’t right. King George is our rightful sovereign. Who would be king when they are done with him?”

  “No king!” Shouting in competition with another gust of wind, Jakob struck the table with his fist. “And no baron deciding what will and will not be done. When I come to this country, I am free for the first time. No more my hat in my hand. The English Parliament—they want to take away our freedom. I say no. No king.”

  “They don’t want our freedom as much as they want our taxes,” Sarah slipped in slyly.

  Christiane ignored Sarah. “No king? Who would rule then?” Hearing her own voice surprised her. She didn’t want Jakob’s attention, but she couldn’t let him go on unchallenged. No king indeed.

  “The people would rule,” Jakob said, spreading his palms. “Our Continental Congress sits in Philadelphia. After the war, we will go on having our own lawmakers in each colony and elect more for the congress of the whole. All will be written out and no king, no baron can change it to please himself.”

  “But how can a country not have a king and lords?” Christiane questioned in exasperation. Everyone knew God had ordained kings to rule common men. What was this Jakob, this farmer suggesting?

  “It would be not different from now—except that we would have our own Parliament or Congress here—not one in England telling us what to do.”

  She wanted to toss back, “And you think a few farmers with muskets can take on His Majesty’s Army and win?” But she did not wish to engage this man in an argument. To distract him from focusing on her, she asked something else she’d wondered about during these constant discussions. “How did this Revolution start, anyway?”

  “You don’t know?” Now Jakob looked surprised.

  “I’ve been in Canada for the past year.” Everyone glanced at her. Christiane was disgusted with herself. To remind them that she had come from Canada was to remind them that she was not English. Momentarily she had forgotten the colonists’—whether English or German—distrust of the French, of what they called “Papists.”