Dalton had not slept for days it seemed. He had shut his eyes mere minutes in a twenty-four hour period. He spurred his horse forward in the evening fog thick enough to make an owl squint. The horse he now rode was full of new life, as he had changed rides at a stable thirty miles back. The ostler recommended he rest. Dalton did not hear him.
His mind was on one thing - to get his cousin back. She had been taken into the woods by masked men and held for ransom. The scoundrels did not want money. They wanted Dalton's uncle to turn himself in to British authorities. Loyalist agents. Cowards.
His eyelids felt like anchors and his body a weighted sack. As the chill night air stirred the trees along the mud-ridden road, so too did Dalton's restless body sway. The thick mist swooped down from the surrounding woods and his horse slowed from gallop to quick trot. He thought about kicking his boots into the beast's sides, but his body did not respond. He slowly lurched forward and drifted into sleep, his head nestled against the horse's mane.
"Sir," he felt himself being shaken. "Mr. O'Connor! You must awake, sir. Your uncle...he's waiting to speak with you." Out of a disoriented haze Dalton could make out his uncle's servant and the silhouette of the opulent two-story abode behind him.
***
He stepped into his uncle, Piers's study. There he sat by the fireplace, a bible opened upside down in his lap. Dalton always knew Piers as a stern man, an outspoken defender of principle, and he was not surprised when his uncle was chosen as one of the leading delegates of his colony to the Second Continental Congress. But on this night he looked feeble and haggard, the lines on his face further accentuated by a poignant expression that failed to leave his visage upon hearing the news that his sole daughter was taken hostage.
"She is our only flower," he said, his eyes turned from his nephew. "We could not bear it...not getting her back. Your aunt has been weary all day. She finally has gone to bed, having slept little last night." He continued to stare off, appearing to look beyond the dying embers of the fireplace.
"Uncle, I will do my utmost to return Celia to our family."
The rheumy eyes turned to face him. "I know you will, lad." And after gently clearing his throat, "I trust Washington was loathe to part with you?"
"On the contrary, uncle. When he heard of the circumstances and witnessed my distress, he bade me Godspeed. He even offered the assistance of my fellow colleagues, but my understanding was that recovering Celia requires covert methods."
"Indeed, lad. Our servant, William, was how we found out where she'd be taken. He was in the carriage when the ruffians stopped the coach. They killed Henry, our poor driver, when he tried to resist with his pistols. They threatened William with his life, and he did not resist when they snatched our Celia and rode off with her." He paused and took a sip of brandy from the side table. "By the grace of God, William overheard one of the riders say 'Eastburgh' - a name, as you know, of a town practically in possession of a portion of King George's army and the Loyalist regiments, since they are camped close by."
"I shall have no trouble reaching Connecticut by afternoon tomorrow, uncle. That note they sent you - to turn yourself in for the release of your daughter - you can burn it along with those logs." Dalton pointed towards the warm, glowing light. "I will find her."
"You have served your country well, having thwarted England's devious plans to rid our colonies of delegates and generals alike. I have full confidence in you, Dalton. The enemy will come to regret the victimizing of young women belonging to our family."
***
Dalton got his much needed rest. After a hearty breakfast prepared by his uncle's servants, he talked with William about his experience. The two spoke in another room so as not to disturb his aunt and uncle's morning meal and further their agony. William told him much of the same account his uncle had described. There were three heavily armed kidnappers who had attacked the coach. Evidently they expected some resistance, but they only had to contend with the unfortunate driver, Henry.
The next bit of news was that the group was all dressed in civilian clothes, corroborating Dalton's theory that they were either redcoat agents, Loyalist collaborators, or both. Whatever the case, Dalton was ready to free them of their newest acquisition.
Dalton remained stoically strong as he bade farewell to his aunt and uncle. The tears in their eyes only fueled his determination. He rode for miles towards the heart of Connecticut colony, well rested and callous to his steed's rhythmic gallop.
It was a damp, dreary day, the land thick with fog. He rode past scattered farms with great red and brown barns and small homespun dwellings. Passing thick forests, he could make out the craggy slopes of the high ground. He saw dark spaces between the jagged rocks, hideouts for any manner of creature – from badger to panther, or even the Indian.
Hours of riding felt like mere minutes to him. He reminisced of the times he spent looking after Celia. The hide and seek on the estate. The horseback riding with her and her friends. The afternoon journeys through the symphonic woods. His memories only served to make him curse the anonymous agents who took her away.
***
Eastburgh appeared out of a bend in the road, surrounded by trees on both sides. Puffs of smoke rose from the chimneys on opposite sides of the thoroughfare. It was a small town, mainly of shopkeepers and farmers. There were few men still around. The young had left to join Washington's army, and the elderly stayed behind to toast the volunteers' courage in the taverns.
After housing his horse in the town stable, it was to one of these taverns Dalton went. As he stepped inside, he immediately smelled the tobacco smoke of pipes and those who puffed the rolled leaf in the Spanish style. The place was filled with old farmers adorned in torn, shabby coats and tricorns with patches and holes.
Many of the customers casted uneasy glances towards him. A division of the British army had passed through, and the townsfolk had kept their ideals quiet. Even now they were wary of any newcomer who may be an agent of the crown.
Dalton stepped up to the bar table and ordered a pint of ale. He spoke to the tavern-keeper and found out that the British army had passed through less than a fortnight. He talked little, for he did not know whose prying ears resided in the surrounding rooms. Casting a quick glance opposite of the bar, Dalton made out no young, rugged types suited to kidnapping his cousin.
He did find an open table between a cluster of others, which were occupied by gray-haired farmers with withered faces. He past the time in conversation with a few of these characters, and by the time he had nearly finished his second draught, a pair of ominous men dressed in dark, mud-stained clothes stepped in from the darkening evening.
Both were very large in stature, one more portly than the other, but just as intimidating as his partner. The larger of the two had a thick beard and wore a dirtied tricorn, while his less robust companion showed a large scar on his cheek and a hatless head with unclean, overgrown dark hair. A few of the drinking denizens turned heads in their direction, only to quickly reverse the decision. These were men who had made it known that their privacy be undisturbed.
Dalton leaned and talked with the simple farmers, so as to appear that he had no interest in the newcomers. As he talked, he did not shy his eye away from them – for he knew that these men had to do with Celia’s capture. He took his time finishing the last sips of his second drink – a good three quarters of an hour. By then, the two had become somewhat besotted with the contents of their mugs. The scarred one had attempted discord with a few who sat at an opposite table. The talk was political – and mostly one sided.
“Make no mistake,” the ruffian spoke boisterously. “The crown has made numerous attempts to reconcile the colonies’ petty grievances. But the unruly, spoiled child scorns his own mother’s help.” Spit flew from his pungent mouth. His companion smirked, showing rampantly discolored enamels.
The recipient of the brunt of his speech merely nodded, so as if to give the impression that he was, at the least, partially listening to the drunken chat. The gesture meant nothing to the rogue, for he grabbed the fragile arm of the old man and shook it violently.
“Ah so you agree with me?” he said, his grip hard. “You shriveled toad!” He looked around at the starring faces. “All of you would lie, for fear that my friend and I would beat your heads in like that last...discontent.” Mouths remained closed.
The drunkard let go of his elder and laughed aloud and was soon joined by his compatriot. They both turned from the annoyed onlookers, quickly finished their ales, and exited the smoke filled tavern.
Dalton paid and tipped the barman, close behind the kidnappers. Stepping into what was now the cold chill of night, he could make out the hot air of horse breath as the two men rode their mounts out of the nearby stable.
***
It did not take him long to catch up with their pace down the country road that lead to a path in the woods. He stayed a few hundred feet behind, his horse keeping a steady but quiet stride. All he could think of was Celia. Was she given enough food and water? Anything to warm her from the chill night and inclement weather? Was she confined in a dark, pinched space? These thoughts grumbled in Dalton’s mind, and poked at him like a bloodletting needle.
They were now on the forest trail, which was less of a trail and more of a makeshift path littered with brambles and bushes and interrupted with tall pines and birches. The three riders slowed their gallop, and Dalton was forced to stay further back, for his horse could not help but crunch leaves and twigs beneath its heavy hooves. The occasional owl and nightbird screeched in conjunction with the howling wind.
Dalton slowed his horse to a stop as he watched those he followed descend a slight rise to where the terrain dropped. Large stones dotted the ground and he could see that they headed for a large hollow. It appeared to be an entrance to a series of caverns, which happened to be adjacent to a large rustling brook, with a heavy flow that angled down with the dip of the land. At the opening to the rock outcrop was another horse tied to a nearby oak trunk.
As the riders stepped down from their mounts, another man came into view from the rocky opening. There was conversation but Dalton could not make out what they were saying. The two riders had brought food from the town, evidently purchased prior to their drunken escapade earlier that evening. Their movements were obscured by the darkness, but fortunately the moon was full enough to keep the night somewhat illuminated.
Having tied his horse to tree a hundred feet back, Dalton now inched closer down the declining ground, careful not to disturb any leaves or branches for fear of being heard. He had to find someway to get inside the cave without alerting the kidnappers. Likely, these were trained soldiers dressed in civilian clothes, so as to hide their affiliation with his majesty’s troops.
He could dispatch one at a time with the butt end of his tomahawk, keeping quiet all the while. There could be complications, as he may not be able to get to one guard without another knowing. He would have to wait till they were all weary with sleep. One would be put on night watch, but he doubted the man would not be snoring himself.
Dalton moved away from the dark clothed men and the mouth of the cave. With the help of moonlight, he could make out the shapes of large boulders that led to the steady stream. There had to be some type of mineral springs beneath the ground and flowing water. Thousands of years and pressure from hot gases jutted limestone and similar rocks up from the depths below. As Dalton crossed the stream – managing to use small stones that prevented his boots from dampening – he could make out another dip in the terrain. Hoping it to be another entrance to the hollow, Dalton descended closer to a cluster of great rocks with dark spaces in between.
He did not see anyone around, nor were there any horses or supplies set out. Moving carefully around the protruding stones, he stepped up to a gaping black opening. Instinctively and with great quickness he pulled the tomahawk from his side belt. There was the sense that something lurked in the darkness between the rocks – a sense he had come to know at a young age, living among the natives in the deep forests. Men were not the only dangers prevalent in the depths of the wilderness.
Backing up slowly, he made out the penetrating yellow eyes of something near the mouth of the hollow. Then followed the whiskers and thick jaws of a great cat. Emerging from the dark, the thing locked its eyes on him, never turning its head. Dalton cursed himself for his ill luck. He could tell the creature had not fed in a while, and that he was its targeted meal.
Dalton struggled to move back up the slope, slipping in the dirt and fallen foliage. He kept his grip tight on the tomahawk in hand, using his free arm to hoist himself up and steady his balance. The great cat moved stealthily after him, biding its time when it would crouch and strike.
He slipped again, his feet sliding beneath him and landing on his back. The cat moved quicker, beginning its half crouch movement. He could hear voices from the other side of the slope where the kidnappers were. Had they heard him? Whatever the case, he needed to focus on the issue at hand. Steadying himself, he stood on his feet, continuing to back away. Meanwhile, his hunter inched closer by the second, mere feet from him.
He could see its large, muscular form, now seeping low to the ground in anticipation for attack. Its tale whipped in a flash and a low guttural growl filled the quiet night. Dalton sprinted to the top of the rise, reaching steady ground. The cat leaped for him. He darted to the left, avoiding its shredding claws as they swiped. It swooped around a tree and he could see the eyes gleam once more as it made its way back to him.
In the moonlight, the creature looked like a stalking phantom ready to unleash death on its prey. Dalton tightened his grip on the tomahawk and dagger he pulled from his boot. He continued to back away from it to give himself more time to react. In a split-second, it was in the air leaping at him. The sheer force of the impact forced him to lose balance and hit the hard ground. Jagged canines and a crunching maw went for his jugular.
Dalton put up his left arm, barely fending off the bite. As he blocked the attack, he tried to angle the knife to puncture one of its eyes, but the cat’s weight pushed him back. He could start to feel its razor nails tear through his clothes and seep into his indefensible skin. He tried to maneuver out from under the beast, but it seemed to trap him like a colossal anvil. He lay on his right side, attempting to slide away from its grasp.
Somehow he was able to flatten his back and free his right arm. He quickly flung his tomahawk into the side of the great cat, and it let out a shrill cry of pain while releasing the tight grip of its claws. Dalton was up on his feet, his weapons held tight. The cat limped after him, hissing in agitation and anger. It sprang for him again. This time Dalton was ready.
He swung the bloodied axe blade, striking the creature in the side of the neck, and in the same instant made powerful jabs with the dagger into its heart. Another cry filled the night, this time the cry of death. The cat fell limp to Dalton’s side, convulsed, then let out its lengthened last breath. Blood dripped from minor gashes, but otherwise Dalton remained unscathed.
***
He inspected his cuts which, fortunately, were not deep and bled little. Stepping over the feline’s lifeless body, Dalton moved swiftly to the crevices at the opposite side of the cave’s mouth. Loose rocks and pebbles caused him to slide from time to time. He managed to make little noise, finding an opening that led underground.
The echo of rushing water filled his ears as darkness enveloped him. He made his way blindly into the cave, gripping his tomahawk in case any other creature of the night should be on the prowl. The way was uneven and clumpy, a mixture of sediment and rock concocted by centuries of subterranean water flow and erosion. Just as the lack of light began making movement difficult between the jutting cavern walls and boulders, Dalton noticed a feint illuminated space to his left.
Moving towards the luminescence, he discerned the flowing water getting louder. Turning a corner of jagged limestone, there came in view a swiftly moving underground stream made visible by numerous openings above – cracks in the craggy sediment of the cave that gave way to rays of a full summer moon. The wide open cave ceiling gave it a cathedral-like aura, the tall spires of cavern rock and limestone sediment resembling the pipes of the gargantuan German organs Dalton had heard of from his hymn playing uncle.
For a moment, Dalton stood in awe of the sublimity of the scene, when in the distance he made out glowing shadows. He knew this to be a different kind of light – that of a fire or torch. It was coming from across the stream as it lead down through the swirl of caverns and natural pools carved out through the centuries. As his eyes followed the waterway down, he made out a blocked passage where the rock and solidified sediment created a wall over the stream. Dalton would have to submerge himself to get through to where the firelight was coming from, for there was no other way for him to maneuver to that side of the caverns.
He knew not how long he would have to dip his head below water, nor if there were openings in the rock large enough for his body to fit through. What he did know was that he had no choice. He needed to get to Celia and get her home. The thought of her being mistreated, malnourished and utterly alone tore at his heart like a cannonball through a battle flag. Taking off his coat, he made his way to where the stream bubbled and flowed beneath the rugged rock.
He jumped in and was immediately swept underneath the above obstruction. His shirt caught on a protruding stone as he was submerged. A sense of urgency came over him as there were no air pockets, only narrow uneven rock touching the water. He managed to tear his clothing free and soon flowed into an opening closer to the glowing, manmade light.
Raising his head above the water, he pulled himself out of the current along the edge of the cavern walls. Around a corner to his right, he could hear voices near the firelight. He inched his way closer, knife and tomahawk in hand. The light was feint enough to help mask his approach, and he was able to peak his head in the direction of the kidnappers. There were two of them talking by the low fire. And there was Celia.
She lay asleep to her captors’ left, her dress shabby and filth-ridden. He could not see her face, but he knew his cousin by her golden hair. Dalton knew he would have to wait till the two men were asleep before he made his move. He kept his weapons close.
***
The fire was almost out. No more talking. Rushing water mingled with the nasally sound of men in slumber. Dalton moved in. The cavern floor was uneven and he was weary, but undeterred. His foot slid noisily. A voice spoke – it was soon muffled by the blunt end of a tomahawk connecting with skull. With one dispatched, he turned to the other kidnapper who was now awake. He yelled a name and for aid.
Dalton saw him searching for his flintlock pistol, but it was dark and he reached the man before he could fire. He raised his tomahawk as a club the second time. This time his opponent caught his arm, and both struggled in front of the dying embers of the fire-pit. Moonlight seeping in from cracks above cast silhouettes of the two grappling bodies on the cavern walls. Dalton heard the startling exclamation of his cousin.
The kidnapper had loosened Dalton’s hold of his knife and it fell to the bedrock. He now lay on the ground, his enemy on top of him, stopping the hand carrying the axe blade. An iron grip squeezed Dalton’s throat. He felt feeble – the long hours of riding, tracking, and wrestling with a great cat had sapped his strength. He moved his hand along the ground and it began to burn. He let out a cry of pain as he released the cloud of hot ash in into the face of the man choking him. Now the kidnapper cried out. Dalton was free, using his tomahawk as a club. His enemy was soon unconscious.
In the darkness, he told Celia who he was. She was quickly in his arms trembling, then backing away. Dalton turned. Through a passageway to his left, Dalton saw another figure. The third kidnapper on guard. The one whose name was called by his compatriot moments before. Dalton whirled to the cavern floor as a pistol shot off, the bullet flying harmlessly over his head and ricocheting deep into the reverberating cavern. His opportunity missed, the last guard took off down the opposite end of the passageway. Dalton did not pursue, for the man had an advantageous head start and would most likely not be returning.
Cautiously, Dalton led Celia to the entrance of the caves. The third guard had indeed fled. The two of them rode off on Dalton’s horse in the direction of the American encampment a few miles west of that of the British. Exhausted and with no stamina to move on, they made camp in the middle of the night.
***
Dalton had dozed only for an hour or so. He realized his error in not moving out sooner. The grey dawn had arrived and so did the sound of pursuing hoof beats. The guard that ran off must have notified fellow redcoats of the two who had escaped the caverns. Dalton could hear the cavalry troopers in the distance, stealthily searching the woods for their camp.
He awoke Celia and, not having time to haul the weight of his supply bag, grabbed the two loaded pistols inside. They were soon at full gallop reaching the end of the forest tree line. Dalton could hear the alerted troopers in pursuit – their shouts and gunshots. Trees splintered feet around their lowered heads as they rode for the American camp.
They made the clearing and rode hard across the open farmland, barely half a mile from the encampment. Celia was in front, Dalton’s body acting as a shield from whizzing musket balls. Tall white tents began to come into view. Dalton shouted towards the emptying lodgings to garner attention. Blue-coated soldiers and drab-clothed riflemen scrambled for their muskets as the scene unfolded before them.
Dalton looked back and could see a red-coated officer in full pursuit. He heard a close pop, then was hit. He flew off the horse and hit the ground, his world wobbling and fading into nothing.
***
He awoke in a soft bed in the early evening. A cool, refreshing breeze hit his face as it flapped the canvas at the entrance to the tent. Looking over, he noticed a familiar face.
“Mr. Hamilton,” Dalton said whimsically, despite his condition.
“Good to have you back, sir,” his friend replied. “Celia is quite alright. She visited you earlier, but you were still concussed. You were lucky. The ball passed through your shoulder before you managed to knock yourself unconscious by falling off your horse. It took two Pennsylvania riflemen to drag you into camp.”
“King George almost got me.”
“That he did. Fortunately, those mounted dragoons thought better of taking on an entire American camp packed full of some of our finest regiments.”
“Why are you here? Are you not indispensible to Washington?” Dalton said as he inspected the bandages covering his right shoulder.
“I believe it is you he cannot do without.” Hamilton handed him a sealed note. “He needs your inquisitive skills regarding the bickering between the northern generals. There is suspicion that a British agent is spreading false rumors and making the commanders’ close aides disappear. And this has been occurring on the eave of a planned British invasion from Canada. Naturally, he wants you up there to investigate. After a few days of recovery, of course.”
Dalton nodded. He would see Celia home, and soon be off. He wondered what was brewing in the army camped in northern New York colony. Whatever the case, he would follow the orders of his commander-in-chief.
